


find happiness in misery

by the_ragnarok



Series: find happiness in misery [1]
Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Abusive Relationships, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Canon Asexual Character, Extremely Dubious Consent, Fisting, Gang Rape, Glory Hole, Humiliation, M/M, Nipple Piercings, Open Relationships, Rope Bondage, Self-Harm, Self-Hatred, Sex Repulsed Asexual Character, Spitroasting, Under-negotiated Kink, Unhealthy Relationships, Unsafe Sex, Wax Play, Whipping, nonsexual kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-07
Updated: 2020-01-18
Packaged: 2021-02-27 03:33:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 12
Words: 21,575
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22160350
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_ragnarok/pseuds/the_ragnarok
Summary: After being pushed by his friend-with-benefits to find a boyfriend, Martin finds himself in two relationships - sweet courtship with sex-repulsed Jon, and a kinky connection with fabulous-in-bed but-terrible-person Peter. This is great, until it isn't.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims, Martin Blackwood/Original Male Character(s), Martin Blackwood/Peter Lukas, Martin Blackwood/Tim Stoker
Series: find happiness in misery [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1630777
Comments: 175
Kudos: 448





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> See end notes for some elaboration on consent in this fic.

"You -- fucking -- whore," Tim snarls as he drives into Martin, fucking him with hard snaps of his hips through Martin's shuddering, gasping climax. Tim pulls out and pulls Martin's hair, positioning him so Martin's face catches all of Tim's spunk. For a moment, there is nothing but the heat of humiliation and satisfaction, of being _used_.

Then Tim coughs and offers him a washcloth, and Martin's just a guy with a load of come on his face, in a room with someone who doesn't love him.

He feels awful thinking that. He's sure Tim loves him as a friend. Just because he doesn't feel about Martin the way Martin would want doesn't mean it's not love. Martin resolves to put it out of his mind. He wills the yearning to wash away with the mess on his face.

No luck. Tim looks at him when he's done and says, gently, "Are you going to cry again?"

"I am not," Martin says, and ruins it with a tiny sniffle. "S-sorry, God. This was fantastic, I don't know why I get like this." It's a lie and they both know it.

"It couldn't be that hard to find a boyfriend," Tim says. Like he's ever tried. Martin scrubs at his face and doesn't dignify this with an answer. "Okay, you know what? This Saturday we're going out, and you're going to hook up with someone who isn't me. I know just the event. You're not going to find a relationship by hiding out in your flat."

"I don't think that's how relationships start."

"Then prove me wrong. But promise me you'll try. All right?" Tim holds out his hand.

Martin hesitates, but he shakes it. What does he have to lose?

~

Half an hour before they're meant to meet, Martin's phone rings. Martin sees Tim's name on the display and answers with a sense of dread.

"I am so sorry," Tim says, and Martin's stomach plummets. "I can't make it, my brother's had an emergency and he needs me."

"It's fine," Martin says, dully. "Didn't feel much like going anyway."

"You should still go," Tim says. "You promised, remember?"

"Under the conditions that you'll come with me!"

"You promised," Tim says, ominous, and, "Listen, I have to go, but try to have fun? Please?"

"Fine," Martin says, and the conversation cuts off. He looks at himself and sighs. He'd already gotten dressed up and bought a ticket. He might as well.

~

The party is a dedicated queer kink event, which Martin supposes is a relief. The idea of trying to hit on someone in a space where they might be straight is just -- inconceivable. As it is, the idea of hitting on a stranger is near unthinkable. Not to mention that he doesn't know anyone: Tim was meant to introduce him to people.

Instead, Martin wanders the flat where the party is happening and nurses his plastic cup of lemonade. They don't allow alcohol in this party, so nobody will play impaired, and while Martin appreciates the idea he could have done with some liquid courage at this time. The flat has one common area where people mingle and drink and talk, and four rooms.

One has hooks hanging from the ceiling, for rope suspension, and a St. Andrew's cross. One has a raised, roped area, with a padded bench for spanking in the middle. One has a hospital bed, a gynecologist's chair, and some people messing with needles; Martin leaves that one in a hurry.

The last one has a tarp on the floor, and some stalls set up. One of them has a sign on it reading "Glory Hole!" with a smiling emoji. The door is half-open. There is nobody inside.

Martin, who is suddenly crimson, would walk out of the room but it feels like he can't move. He can barely breathe.

Surely he could just take a look inside. How likely is it that anybody would come, at any rate?

Inside the stall there is a tarp-covered pillow, and two holes at the height one would expect, one on each side, each about the size of Martin's head. Slowly, as if in a dream, Martin lowers himself to kneel on the pillow. It doesn't matter. No one can see. He shuts the door and tries not to hyperventilate.

God. Imagine, just think of someone putting their dick through that hole, rude and obscene, waiting for Martin to, to service them... Martin gets hard just thinking about it. He rubs himself through his trousers and stifles a moan.

Outside he hears people talking, laughing, a faint distant sound of whips, and that makes it better and worse. The thought of being shut in here, sucking dick while other people are enjoying the party, because that's what Martin's for, isn't it? Martin's sole justification for being is how good he is with a cock in his mouth.

A couple of the voices are getting closer. Martin freezes, breath catching in his throat. He jolts when he hears one say, "Oh look, the glory hole is occupied. Want to give it a spin?"

"Don't mind if I do," says the other voice. Martin shivers under the fluorescent lighting. Suddenly he's not sure. He's never done this, let a stranger fuck his mouth. What if it-- what if he--?

Before he can do anything, though, a condomed cock comes in through the hole on his right. And, well. Martin can hardly leave him like this, can he? That would be impolite.

He starts out tentative, mouthing at the head, growing bolder when the cock twitches under his attention. He lets it into his mouth, as deep as he can, tickling at the edge of his throat. Martin never had much of a gag reflex and he trained himself out of the rest of it as a teenager, jerking off with three fingers as deep in his mouth as he could get them.

When the man in the next stall over pushes, Martin swallows around his cock. He doesn't mind the taste of the condom, but he wishes he could taste skin instead. He tries to take it deep enough that he can touch his face to the hair at the base of the man's cock, smell the person behind the latex.

A pointed cough interrupts him. "What's a bloke got to do to get some service around here?"

It makes Martin jump. He lets the dick in his mouth out and turns his head. Sure enough, there's another cock there, which Martin would have noticed if he were focused at all on his surroundings. Martin hastens to make it feel welcome, using his hand to take care of the cock he was sucking previously.

He manages to time it so the two visitors come almost at the same time. He's pretty proud of himself, actually.

The man on the right thanks him. Martin feels weird saying, "You're welcome," but he couldn't just ignore it.

Then there's a new cock coming in on his left, and Martin has other concerns.

He gets a little downtime between dicks, but even so his jaw aches from all of them. The degradation of that, of knowing he can't even remember how many men he's sucked off this evening, gets him harder and harder. He doesn't have a free hand to jerk himself off, his attention aimed at the cocks waiting for his mouth and hands.

Finally, one more cock comes in. Unlike all the others so far, this one is bare. Martin hesitates.

"Are you worried?" The voice on the other side sounds rough and amused. "I assure you I have a clean bill of health."

Trusting a man who says that at a party sounds like a great way to get a faceful of STDs, but Martin's so hungry for skin that he caves anyway. He moans when the man's cock parts his lips.

"You sound like a proper whore," the man says idly. Martin moans again. "Oh, that's nice. Shall I tell you how I intend to use you? To fuck your face and come down your throat and leave you aching?"

Martin groans. He is so hard that it's embarrassing.

"I want to feel both your hands on my cock," the man says. "I don't want you touching yourself, nasty little thing. Don't you know the customer comes first?"

Martin snatches up one of his hands, which had been creeping towards his erection. He puts it on the man's cock instead. It's certainly big enough. Martin has a brief, guilty image of that cock driving inside him, shoving in while the man kept calling Martin names in that voice.

He isn't ready for the hand that comes in through the hole and grabs him by hair. Without fanfare, the man holds him in place and fucks his throat, pushing hard and slow, taking his time even as Martin chokes. There are tears coming out of Martin's eyes when the man finally comes.

He coughs weakly after the man leaves his mouth. He is still so hard he could cry with it.

The man leaves him, and walks outside. Then there is a knock on Martin's door. Martin opens it. What else would he do?

On the other side is an older man, white, with piercing blue eyes and salt-and-pepper hair. "Aren't you a sight," he says, looking down at Martin with appreciation.

Martin's face reddens. "Got you off, didn't I?"

"So you did. And a fine job you did of it, too." The man reaches out his hand. "My name's Peter. Come have a drink." Martin takes his hand and draws himself up.

As he comes to a stand, Peter's eyes linger on the tent in his trousers. "Perhaps there's a little matter we should take care of," he says, "before drinking. What do you say?"

Martin nods so fast that his face must blur.

There's no ceremony. Peter pins him to the wall, jams his hand down Martin's pants and says, "Well, get on with it, will you? You've spent enough time gearing up for it," and Martin gasps and comes and comes and comes.


	2. Chapter 2

Despite not drinking, Martin feels like he's nursing a hangover on Sunday morning. It's the subdrop, he gets it despite his best attempts to take care of himself. Nothing to do but weather it. 

(Peter hadn't offered aftercare, and Martin hadn't asked. Peter did ask for Martin's number, which Martin shared in numb bewilderment. Peter probably just deleted it, anyway.)

When his phone rings, Martin groans and buries his head under a pillow. It's not from the home where his mum is, they have a different ringtone, but the habit of answering is deeply ingrained. Martin takes the call with a weary, "What is it?"

"Can you be ready in an hour?" Sasha says. No preamble, but honestly, it's better this way than going through fifteen minutes of chitchat while he's aching and miserable. "If I don't get enough people in, I'll have to cancel my event."

Sasha's a friend, a good one, and Martin doesn't feel like arguing. He agrees. It's only when her car stops outside his building that Martin remembers what the event is.

"I changed my mind," Martin says when she rolls down her window to tell at him to get in. "I am not fit for speed dating, Sasha, have mercy. Look at me." He gestures at his rumpled clothes. "I'm a mess."

"I knew that when I called you," Sasha says, unproturbed. "Get in the car already. It's a casual event, no need to break out the tux." She grabs his hand and pulls. "I just need you to make up numbers, come on."

It's the wheedling tone in her voice that breaks him. The queer events that Sasha organizes mean a lot to her, and every failed event is seized upon as an excuse to withdraw budget, especially since Sasha works hard to be inclusive to trans, bi, asexual and aromantic folk. Martin has no wish to see her fail. 

It doesn't hurt that she glows at him once he settles in the car. "My hero," she murmurs, as she pushed the gas pedal hard enough to make Martin yelp.

The event itself isn't much: about ten tables in a room in the community centre Sasha worked with. Martin ambles to one table piled high with pronoun stickers and flag pins. Takes the usual "he/him/his" and the rainbow pride flag.

It's not as excruciating as Martin would have thought. Most people he knows already, and they're able to exchange friendly conversation with Martin doing minimal prompting. So far the ones Martin hasn't known were both 19 and looking intimidated. Martin tries his best to appear nonthreatening. Maybe they should segregate this by age groups, although that might not work given the number of people.

Then Martin is sat before another person he doesn't know, desi, his hair black and greying at the temples. "Jon," the man says, and doesn't offer him a hand. "He/him, I'm twenty nine, and I don't have sex."

Jon doesn't have any kind of sticker on. Maybe they ran out of ace ones, although there were plenty of those when Martin last looked. "All right. I'm Martin, thirty, he/him." He gestures awkwardly at the tag. "You know, like it says here."

"Right," Jon says, absolutely frosty and not giving an inch. 

Martin's fatigue catches up with him. God damnit, he is not going to cry in front of this disapproving stranger. "Did I somehow manage to offend you or are you this much of a prick on principle?"

Jon's eyebrows rise. He is silent for a moment, while Martin turns bright red and wishes for the Earth to swallow him. Then Jon says, "I'm told I'm frequently a prick, to use your phrasing. Possibly it's congenital."

Martin stares at him for a solid minute before bursting out laughing. "You know, I can see that. Think you could stand to be civil for," he glances at the large, prominent wall clock, "two more minutes?"

The nod Jon gives him is grudging, and so is the tiny sliver of a smile that accompanies it. 

"I probably have some good memes on my phone, if you're wanting entertainment," Martin says, mouth getting away from him again. Jon doesn't look like he knows what a meme is, with that plaid atrocity he's wearing. "Or pictures of baby zoo animals."

Jon makes a moue of distaste. "I have plenty of cute animal pictures." To prove this, he whips out his phone and proceeds to show Martin a dozen pictures of a fat ginger tom named The Admiral. 

"That's your cat?" Martin says, in a typical display of brilliance.

To his surprise, Jon shakes his head. "My ex's. We share custody." He grimaces. "She threatened to withhold visitation rights if I didn't come here today."

"Oh," Martin says, with a pang of sympathy. "Yeah, I'm just here to help a mate out, Sasha, she's organizing this event."

Before they can say any more, Sasha blows a whistle and Martin gets up to sit at the next table to the left, where a nonbinary person ten years older than him shows him pictures of zir community garden. 

At the end of the event, Martin intends to let the little card with the table numbers go unmarked, but on impulse checks the box next to number seven. Can't hurt. Not like Jon would mark him in return.

~

Martin's back from work and unwinding in front of the telly when he hears a message notification. He checks it idly, expecting some meme from Tim or an update on Sasha's newest project. 

Instead it's an unregistered number. _This is Peter, from the party,_ it reads. _Could I interest you in a more private party?  
_  
God, that's cheesy, and creepy besides. And yet, just these messages are reminding Martin of how it felt to have Peter's hand fisted in his hair, Peter's cock shoving down his throat. He could do with another round. _Suppose I am,_ Martin send back. 

_Wonderful!_ An address follows, and Martin squints at it. It's a ridiculously posh neighborhood.

Martin should let someone know where he's going, if only so the police can find his dismembered body when Peter turns out to be a serial killer. But if he tells Tim or Sasha, they'll demand to know more, and probably try to talk him out of going at all. 

It's been less than a week since the party and here Martin is, already gagging for more. Serves him right if he does get serial killed. 

On the plus side, Martin doesn't worry too much about what he's going to wear. Odds are it won't matter either way. 

He's right. An hour later finds him naked and riding Peter's cock, making shivery moans and whimpers as it stretches him. 

"That's right," Peter says, sounding fascinated. Peter, by contrast, is fully dressed in a fancy suit. If he cares that Martin's getting lube on his trousers, he shows no sign of it. "Take it, go on."

Martin exhales, shaky, and takes in the last couple of centimeters, fully sat on Peter's cock. Fuck, he's full. His thighs are sore already. They'd gotten quite a workout this evening. 

Peter's hands find his nipples and twist, rough and painful. Martin lets out a yelp. Peter laughs and smacks his arse, hard. "I want to see you bouncing, slut."

Martin flushes even as his cock drips. 

Peter makes a considering noise. "You know, I have just the thing." He reaches to a bedside drawer and pulls out a ribbon with a bell on it, which he ties around Martin's cock. "If I don't hear ringing, you're getting spanked." He lays a hard smack on Martin by way of demonstration. 

Martin makes sure it rings, until he can't. 

When his thighs have given up he slumps, straddling Peter's lap, and accepts the hard hits that Peter deals him. Sobs openly from the hurt.

"So pretty when you cry," Peter murmurs. "What if I pull out and make you finish me off with your mouth, hm?"

"No, please." Martin's voice is a tiny, strained thing. "Please keep, keep..."

Peter delivers three more smacks to Martin's bruised ass. "If you can't say it, you shouldn't be having it."

"Please keep fucking me." The words come out as a sob. 

"Oh, I suppose. Since you asked nicely." Peter doesn't bother with changing position, only pushing Martin up and down on his cock, moving him like a toy. Martin's abused backside protests the hard grip Peter has on it. Martin closes his eyes and shakily moans. 

Finally, Peter tips him so that Martin's on his back and Peter is kneeling on the bed to fuck him. Peter's hand goes back to tormenting Martin's nipple. Martin squirms and gasps. Peter fucks him hard and perfect, until Martin is nothing but a whimpering mess of sensation. 

"I'm going to come," Peter says, managing a conversational tone. "If you don't get off before then, well, worse luck for you."

Martin's pretty sure that means he'll be thrown out sans orgasm, but it makes a tantalizing image: what, exactly, would Peter do to him if he doesn't come? What kind of punishment--

Before Martin can come up with more than a vague idea, Peter roughly grabs his cock and strokes him to completion in quick, perfunctory movements. Martin makes some highly embarrassing noises as he comes. 

Peter lasts longer than Martin would have expected, after that, fucking Martin good and sore. But he does finally come. After pulling out, he bends to bite Martin hard on the arse. He chuckles at Martin's yelp. "To remember me by," he says, and kisses the bruised skin. 

"I think I'll remember you, all right," Martin says faintly.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jon engages in very mild nonsexual D/s in this chapter.

When the message from Sasha arrives, Martin has to re-read it five times. It still says the same thing: _You have a match! You and Jonathan Sims picked one another._ Jon's number is attached.

It takes Martin the rest of the day to gather the courage to send a text. Jon replies promptly, which helps some with Martin's immediate certainty that there'd been some sort of mistake.

It doesn't help completely. He doubts anything would. 

He arrives at the restaurant feeling out of sorts. It's almost comforting when Jon turns to him, eyes as wide as if Martin were a ghost. 

"Weren't expecting me?" Martin jokes. 

He's a little stunned when Jon, in what cannot be a defensive tone, says, "Honestly, I was expecting to be stood up."

"What?!" Martin tries to keep from gaping. "Why would I do that?"

"You do remember I won't be having sex with you?" Jon says, a little too loudly for a London street. 

Martin reflexively looks around him, but it doesn't seem like they've attracted any kind of attention. "Why don't we have this conversation where there's food and heating?"

They sit, they order,and Martin says, "To answer your question - yes, I do remember you," he fumbles to remember the words Jon used, "don't have sex. That's fine, and anyone who would stand you up because of that is a twat."

"Bold words," Jon says. "Are you saying you'd be happy staying celibate?"

Martin thinks about it. To his surprise, his answer is, "I don't think I'd mind." It might be a relief, if Peter comes calling, if Martin has a firm reason to turn him down. Their last meeting caused Martin several days of a sore arse and lingering remains of subdrop. 

Jon's gaze is inscrutable. Finally he says, "I don't care, to be frank, who anyone has sex with so long as it's not me."

Martin digests this. "So you're... Good with an open relationship?"

Jon makes an irritable noise. "Suppose I am." He ducks his head when Martin looks at him, though. "I don't like labels."

"Fair enough." Martin looks at the menu. "So, what's good here?"

They order. Martin loses himself for a moment in eyeing the column of Jon's neck, scarred and elegant. Jon catches him looking, but - much to Martin's surprise - looks pleased. 

"What on Earth do people discuss on first dates?" Jon says, after a few more moments of silence.

Martin giggles. "Mutual interests, I suppose." He considers his life. Most of his free time is spent hanging out with Tim or Sasha, reading poetry or try to write it. Anything to do with Tim is right out. "My options are poetry or queer community gossip."

Jon looks pained. "I suppose the gossip will have to do."

Martin aims a fork at him. "If you don't like it, come up with your own topic. What do you do for a living?"

"I'm the head archivist of the Magnus Institute."

Martin's eyes widen. "I heard of them! That should give you material for an entire evening's worth of stories."

Jon looks uncertain. "I'm told one shouldn't go on about one's job all night. And not many of them are suited for the dinner table."

Martin shrugs. "Try me. What's the last one you read?"

Jon grimaces. "Oh, that one. There was, apparently, a ghost. And it was on fire. That's as much as I managed to get out of the statement giver before she demanded cash for the hard work of wasting my time."

It's mean and horrible, but Martin finds himself giggling again. It seems to encourage Jon, who goes on to tell about a man with a dog and a hedge maze, with a great deal of detail about the dog and less so about the supposed supernatural encounter. Jon's not _nice_ , but his dry wit and scathing tones are quietly hilarious. He has a lovely voice, too, deep and expressive. 

Martin manages to contribute a few anecdotes of his own about customers being ridiculous, and Jon even cracks a small smile once or twice, so he doesn't feel too bad. 

They get dessert. After, they walk together to the tube station. "I had a really nice time," Martin says softly. 

Jon turns to him with an assessing look. Then, he takes a deep breath and gives Martin a quick peck on the cheek. "Me too," he says, and walks away without saying goodbye. 

Martin stays frozen, hand halfway to his face, feeling that fleeting kiss like a brand. 

~

He worries about it later. Did Jon want to kiss him, really, or did he feel obligated? Was Jon just being polite?

But then again, the next morning he has a text from Jon tersely naming a time and a place, and asking his availability. Jon's stiff tone in writing has Martin so endeared it's embarrassing. Jon wouldn't ask him on another date just to be polite, would he?

"An excess of politeness," Jon says when they meet and Martin blurts out this question, "is not something I was ever accused of. And I never do anything I don't want to do." The look in his eyes as he says this is fierce, and Martin loves him a little for it. 

However, "Didn't you say your ex made you to the speed dating thing?"

Jon rolls his eyes. "You don't have my cat as a hostage, do you?" He sighs. "I may have been exaggerating. Georgie said I need to get out more, and she wasn't wrong."

It's Saturday noon, and they're sat in a coffee shop, watching the rain fall outside. Martin blows on his hot cocoa to cool it. Jon went for tea, predictably enough. "Georgie's your ex? Sounds like a pretty amicable breakup."

"It was. But I'm told I shouldn't bring exes up on dates."

"She's already been brought up," Martin says reasonably. "I don't mind, and if we're having, ah, if I'm having sex with other people, we'll need to discuss that as well at some point."

"Are you?" Jon seems genuinely curious. "Having sex, I mean."

"Yeah." Martin considers. "There's Tim, we're friends with benefits, I suppose. But he'll be off the the States in a few days, so he won't be relevant for the next few weeks. And then there's Peter." Martin thinks how to put it. "He's... not a friend."

"Just benefits, then?" Jon's eyebrows rise. 

After some hesitation, Martin says, "It's complicated. And I'm not sure how much you want to know."

Jon thinks about it. He's got his chin on his hand, one long finger tapping his cheek. "I don't want to hear graphic details or specific acts unless they're very pertinent to the story."

"Not sure how much story there is, honestly. Went to a party, a bloke picked me up, he's horrible but, uh," Martin blushes, "I'm into it, I guess? We've met a few times since, it was basically more of the same."

A small crease appears in Jon's brow. "That," he says, "makes very little sense." He blinks. "But I support you."

Martin grins. "Were you told you should say that by the same person who told you what not to say on dates?"

Jon glares, then sighs. "It's that obvious?"

"Georgie?" Martin hazards a guess. 

Jon buries his face in his hands. "I should not talk to anyone ever again."

Martin certainly knew the feeling. Daring, he put a tentative hand on Jon's shoulder. "That would be a shame. I like talking to you."

"You're obviously a masochist," Jon says, still muffled by his hands. 

"Don't kinkshame me," Martin says mildly. 

Jon groans. He looks up, though, and his eyes are bright. "Wouldn't dream of it," he says, so prim that Martin bursts into giggles. 

A while later, long minute after their drinks are finished, Martin says, "We should probably either order something else or clear out." 

Abruptly, Jon tenses up like a coiled spring. 

Martin starts to reach for him and stops. "We don't have to," he says, as gentle as he can be. "You can just go home if you want to."

"I don't want to," Jon says, frustrated. "I want to keep talking." He looks around them. 

"So we can order another drink," Martin says, "or we could head back to mine. Or yours, whichever is closest. Just to talk."

Jon closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. He looks trapped, and it makes Martin ache with wanting to set him free. "Would it, though? Stop at talking?"

"If that's what you want." Christ, what kind of arseholes has Jon dated?

Jon seems to have reached a decision. He stands up. "Come to mine," he says. 

On the way to the tube station, Jon sketches out some clearer boundaries. "No sex," he repeats. "No touching bathing suit areas. Clothes stay on, no touching under them or moving them away. Closed mouthed kisses, if we get to that. If you get hard, that's fine, but please don't rub it against me." He draws a deep breath.

"Anything else?" Martin asks.

Jon turns to him. "I'd say that's quite enough, wouldn't you?" His mouth is crooked, too bitter to be a smile. 

Martin shrugs. "It's enough if you're comfortable with it. If not, then add as many rules as you need to get comfortable. That's how this works."

Jon scrubs at his face. "None of this is comfortable." He sounds deeply unhappy. "I hate talking about this."

To Martin's slight surprise, he can relate. "It can be easier, sometimes, to just - let the other person do what they want. Easier to deal with doing something you don't want than having a whole conversation about it."

Jon, he realizes, is giving him a very odd look. "I wouldn't say that," he says. "For the most part, people don't stick around long enough to get to this conversation."

"Much easier to put them off by being a prick, I suppose." A smile tugs at the corner of Martin's mouth.

Jon tilts his head in acknowledgement. "But I'm told communication is crucial in relationships, so needs must."

"Very noble of you," Martin agrees, and grins at Jon's resulting glare. 

One tube ride and some walking later, they're sat on Jon's couch. "Should I put something on?" Jon gestures at the TV.

"If you want. Doubt I'll be paying much attention to it." Martin keeps his eyes on Jon's hands and thinks about holding them. 

Jon notices the direction of his look. Slowly, gingerly, he picks up Martin's hand in his. He turns it around like he's never seen one before, like it's fascinating. Like it's precious.

"I could." Martin clamps his mouth shut. 

"What?"

"Nevermind, sorry, not important."

Jon strokes two fingers down the center of Martin's palm. Martin shivers. Jon says, "I believe I said something about communication just a little while ago?"

Martin nods. "Right, and you were right, but what I was about to say is dumb and I shouldn't have said it."

Jon slides his thumb over Martin's wrist. "Tell me." 

Frantically, Martin wonders, _How the hell did Jonathan Sims develop a Dom voice?_ "I wanted to suggest that I stay still and you can touch what you like. Or not touch, if you'd rather not." The words came out of his mouth in a torrent. 

Jon frowns, but he's still holding Martin's hand. "Why?"

"I'm scared." The words come out more breath than voice. "Scared I might hurt you, or, or piss you off." He swallows. Communication. Honesty. Right. "And I like being told to stay still. Feels like something I can do alright, for once." 

Jon's eyes are so focused on him, dark and intense. "Is this a sex thing?"

"It can be," Martin says. "Mostly it makes me feel safe. Good. It can make me, ah, want, but I don't see it as primarily sexual, any more than cuddles. It is a kink thing," he says. "Just, nonsexual kink. You know."

"I'm not sure I do." Jon still has Martin pinned in place with that gaze. It's taking up all of Martin's attention, so much that he can't even think of how embarrassed he should be. "I suppose we could try and see how it goes. Don't move until I say you can."

Martin nods, trying not to look too eager. Jon's hand is warm, holding his. Martin keeps his fingers limp in Jon's grasp. 

Jon runs his fingers over the fine, gingery hair of Martin's arm. He touches Martin's earlobe. He brings Martin's hand to his face and sniffs it, then puts it down hastily, looking sheepish. 

"It's fine if you want to," Martin says. "I don't mind."

Jon stares at him. In a moment he brings Martin's hand to his face and sniffs, deliberately. "You smell like a person," Jon says.

Martin giggles. "I should hope so!"

"Well, you do." Another look, and then, "I haven't asked you about your boundaries?"

"You're fine," Martin says. "I'm not exactly tied up and gagged. I could tell you if anything bothers me."

"I'd rather not do it to begin with." Jon's eyes go sharp. "Promise me you'll say something if I do something wrong."

It catches Martin awkwardly, and he's about to make an objection, he doesn't know what, when Jon says in that voice of his, "Promise me."

"I-- I promise. I do."

Jon's expression smooths out. He touches Martin's eyebrow lightly, smoothing the hair in their growth direction. "All right, then."

As Jon continues his exploration, Martin's breathing evens out. He shivers when Jon touches the nape of his neck, giggles when Jon tickles his stomach. Jon's hands feel wonderful, warm and gentle and curious. 

Finally Jon sits back. "If you could touch me, now," he says, "any way you wanted. What would you do?"

"Kiss your hands," Martin says. "Closed mouthed."

Jon reached out both hands. "Go ahead."

Martin takes one hand in his and brushes a very gentle kiss across the knuckles. He presses a kiss to each fingertip. Then he repeats the same process with the other hand. "Thank you," Martin says, shaky.

"I rather enjoyed that," Jon says, sounding surprised. "So thank you for suggesting it." 

Martin figures he should get going, but then Jon asks, "Isn't there something you're supposed to do, after? Seems abrupt to just call it a day."

Oh. Martin swallows. "I mean, there's aftercare. But you don't have to."

"Martin. Haven't we established I only do what I want?" There is reproach in Jon's voice but his eyes are crinkling like he wants to smile. "What does aftercare look like?" Which is how Martin finds himself wrapped in a blanket and clutching a mug of tea. 

After, Jon walks him to the tube station. Martin turns to tell him goodbye and catches a strange look on Jon's face. 

"I should have asked," he says, "before kissing you last time."

"It was fine," Martin says helplessly. "It was good."

"I still should have asked." Jon looks him in the eye. "I'm asking now. Can I kiss you on the lips?"

Martin shivers and whispers, "You can do whatever you want."

The next day, he feels odd for a few hours before realizing he'd been tensing up for a subdrop that never came.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note additions to tags. Also the number of chapters has been updated from a complete fabrication to a guesstimate.

There's wetness trickling down Martin's arse; probably Peter broke skin spanking him. Peter has several heavy rings on, and he hadn't taken them off before slapping Martin, either. Martin's cheeks - all of them - are hot and sore.

Right now, Peter has three fingers deep inside Martin, and it looks like he's trying to add a fourth. Martin, spread across his lap, gasps and squirms. 

"Peter," he says. "Peter, I can't."

"I don't recall asking your opinion," Peter says pleasantly, and pushes that fourth finger in.

Martin keens as it goes in, keeps making noise. It hurts, feels like he's about to be split apart, and he knows Peter isn't going to stop with this. Peter clearly has an aim in mind, and Martin doesn't like it one bit.

His cock's a different story, hard and dripping over the floor. Martin wonders whether Peter will make him clean it up with his tongue. Whether he'd bother to object. 

When Peter pushes his thumb inside him, Martin howls. He hears the sounds of Peter moving inside him, wet fleshy sounds. At least Peter used plenty of lube. Martin's grateful for small mercies, since the big ones are hard to find. 

As Peter's knuckles breach him, though, Martin falls quiet. This, too, is a kind of submission: accepting that your body can and will be put through any experience the Dom wants to inflict. The only sounds now are Martin's thick, ragged breaths. 

"Don't you look lovely, all spread open." Peter's voice is warm with appreciation. His other hand rubs Martin's back in solicitous circles. Martin sobs and clenches around him, feeling his muscles try and fail to contract. "Giving in. You're such a sweet boy, aren't you? So eager to let me make you feel good." Peter chuckles. "Or bad. Both are fun - from my perspective, at least."

Not for the first time, Martin wishes Peter would shut the fuck up, even as the words send his cock twitching. It's a vicious cycle, where his humiliation arouses him and his arousal humiliates him, and Peter makes everything worse.

Peter does make him clean up the floor, and slaps his arse while he's down there, laughing. But Martin made a very, very sizeable mess. 

~

For their next date, Jon offers his apartment right off the bat. "If you feel comfortable with that, of course."

Martin laughs. "I don't know, you could be a serial killer." 

Across the line, Jon goes quiet. Then he says, "In that case, there's a park--"

"Hold on, I didn't say I didn't want to come," Martin says, hurried. "I mean, some of my best friends are serial killers." A pause. "All right, that's not true. But I don't really think you're dangerous, either."

"I could be dangerous," Jon mutters, but he does invite Martin to his.

This time, Martin takes the apartment in. It's small, but Jon lives alone, no flatmates to drink up all the milk in the fridge. The apartment is weirdly sterile, like it came from a catalog, even as none of the furniture matches in particular. The shelves are dusty but otherwise it's fairly clean. 

"If you're done investigating," Jon says, "you can come to the couch."

Martin stops in his research of Jon's bookshelves. It seems like mainly nonfiction, anyway, nothing very much Martin's interests. On the couch Jon is sat; his mouth is a firm line but his eyes are gleaming. 

"That thing you did last time," Jon says. "The staying still. Do you do that often?"

"Sort of." Martin squirms. "Um. You said mentioning specific acts is okay if it's pertinent?" Jon waves him to go on. "So, usually there's handcuffs involved, or rope. But it's pretty much the same idea."

"Hm." Jon gets up. "Wait here." He goes into the other room.

He comes back shortly, carrying two coils of nylon rope, the kind you can buy in any hardware store. Martin's eyebrows rise to his hairline. Jon asks, "Will this do?"

"Suppose so," Martin says. "But just so you know, this isn't helping the serial killer theory."

Jon grimaces. "I had something of a paranoid phase, a few months back," he says, reluctance written all over him. "It's part of what made Georgie tell me to find a distraction. She said I get, I quote, _weird_ , when I don't get enough human contact."

"What else do you have in your stash?" Martin says, halfway between horrified and fascinated. 

Jon shrugs. "I got rid of the ladder and the jackhammer, they took up too much space." He ignores Martin mouthing the word _jackhammer_ to himself. "I still have torches and candles, just for backup. Some other stuff I don't recall, is it important?"

"Suppose not." Martin eyes the rope. It looks fine. He reaches for it, and Jon gives it to him. Martin tests the bend of it, the stretch. "This won't be the easiest one for you to use, but it should do the trick if you want to."

Jon rolls his eyes. "No, Martin, I don't want to, I just brought this here so you could inspect my survival gear." He takes a look at Martin and lets out a breath. In a soft voice, he says, "Yes, I do want to."

Then he glances at the rope. "'course, I haven't a clue what I'm meant to be doing with that."

"Oh, that's not a problem. I'll find you a tutorial."

Jon's television is hooked up to his computer, for streaming, and it's a moment's work to find video instructions for basic shibari ties where everyone has their clothes on. The workshops Martin's been to, usually on Tim's trail, have usually started with single- and double-column ties, but this isn't a class. Martin lets Jon browse until he finds something he likes. 

In the end, Jon picks a double-column tie after all, using it to tie Martin's wrists together, resting on his chest. Jon has Martin get up and turn around so Jon can coil the left over rope around his torso. Then Jon has him lie down again, and tie his ankles together with the second rope.

During the tying, Jon doesn't talk much, except to offer instructions. He redoes his knots several times, pausing and rewinding the videos as necessary, careful that all the lines lie down flat and even on Martin's skin. When he's done, it's surprisingly neat work for a novice, and Martin says so.

"It's just like crochet, really," Jon says. "Hm. Can I connect your hands and your feet?"

"Of course." Martin tries to find the best position for this, but Jon halts him with a hand on his shoulder. 

"Don't move," Jon says. "You're perfect." Then he commences with that last knot. It's not tight at all, gives Martin plenty of leeway to move. He stays as still as he can.

When that's done, Jon traces the ropework over Martin's body, skipping the parts on his list of limits. Jon's beautiful like this, eyes burning with intensity, his hands learning Martin like a work of art. Jon looks focused. No, Martin realizes: he looks fascinated. 

Periodically, Jon asks Martin, "Are you comfortable?" Martin says yes, until the embrace of the ropes becomes drowns him too much for words. Then he nods, and gives Jon thumbs up whenever he asks. 

While Martin drifts, Jon runs his fingers up Martin's arms, cupping his shoulders. He smooths Martin's hair back from his forehead. Martin makes dreamy little noises. 

Eventually, Martin surfaces again. According to the clock in the TV, it's fairly late - he should be getting going. He says as much.

"Right," Jon says. "Aftercare, then I'll walk you to the station." He goes to make tea.

Martin waits for him to return with the mugs before saying, "You don't actually need to. I'm not going to get lost. I can take care of myself." 

"Drink your tea," Jon says, and drapes a blanket over him. "I've done some reading. The importance of this aftercare stuff is often emphasized. If I'm going to do this, I'm going to do this right."

"There isn't really right and wrong," Martin starts.

"Oh, there's wrong all right," Jon says. "Ignoring someone's boundaries is wrong."

"All right, it is, but that doesn't mean you have to do this." Martin plucks at the blanket. He takes a sip of his tea. "I mean, you already," he blushes, "tied me up. I don't want to be difficult."

Jon looks like he's about to snort, but then decides he's above it. "I wrote the book about being difficult. Trust me, you're not doing it." He looks at the ropes he's taken off Martin, and on the rope marks still visible on Martin's wrists. His expression is almost shy. "I liked it."

Martin doesn't know why he's pressing this issue, but he can't seem to leave it alone. "It just seems odd that we start dating and you immediately take to what I want to do. What about what you want to do? What you like?"

Now Jon does snort. "What I want to do? Left to my own devices, I watch telly and work until 2AM. This is better. I--" He abruptly shuts his mouth and looks away.

Gently, Martin says, "I want to hear, if you'll tell me."

Jon sighs. "I was the same with Georgie, but with her it was thread crafts. She loved it, and I loved her - some sort of transitive property, I suppose. It was fun to do together, as long as together existed."

"Jon," Martin says, heart breaking a little. He puts down his mug and puts his arms around Jon, who is stiff at first, but melts into Martin's grip just as Martin's about to back off and apologize. "I hope you'll like doing it for you," Martin whispers to the man in his arms. "Even if we don't work out, if you enjoy it, I hope it keeps being good for you."

"I make no promises," Jon says, and burrows closer, so that they're both hidden under the blanket. 


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See end notes for content notes.

"I used to go on dates with Georgie to yarn shops," Jon says, as they turn right. "This is just like that."

Martin grunts agreement, while desperately trying to remember whether Passionate Agony had their sex toys on the first or second floor. They're almost at the store, so Martin stops and says, "Um, just so you know, they also have sex toys in there."

Jon gives him a withering look. "Sex toys. At a kink shop. You don't say."

"We can order rope online," Martin continues doggedly. "Or get more from a hardware store. Or I could go inside and send you pictures and you'll decide what to buy."

"Or," Jon says, "I could go inside and look at ropes myself. Stop _fretting_ , Martin. I have seen sex toys before."

Martin keeps walking silently. He is relieved, when they arrive at Passionate Agony, to discover that the more explicit sex toys are indeed on the second floor. He suspects Jon, despite his bluster, is the same.

Jon quickly gets lost looking at rope, checking textures, sniffing them discreetly. Martin wanders around the store, fingering some floggers with a wistful sigh. He likes floggers, likes them a lot, but he can't afford one and nobody he's close to has one. One day. 

Martin stops short of running into another customer, a large man. "Oh, excuse me," Martin says, walking backwards.

The man turns to him, and Martin freezes.

It's Peter.

Peter, who looks positively delighted to see Martin. "Now, isn't this a lovely coincidence," he says. "Buying equipment? The options here are all rather downmarket for my tastes, but there is a certain rustic charm to it." He takes in the flogger Martin was fondling. "Like that, do you?"

Martin shrugs one-shouldered, at a loss for words. 

Peter takes the flogger off the shelf and presses it into Martin's hand. "There you go. Take it to the register and tell them to put it to Peter Lukas' account. Have fun." 

It takes Martin a moment to realize that Peter meant it as a gift. "I can't accept this."

"Why on Earth not?" Peter puts a hand on Martin's back and pushes him towards the register. "Bring it when I next call you and we can have some fun."

Martin's opening his mouth to answer - he has no idea what he's going to say - when Jon walks from around the shelves. "There you are," Jon says, brandishing four nylon ropes in different shades - pink, green, blue and black. "Do you like those?"

"They're very nice," Martin mumbles. They are, although now Martin would approve of barbed wire if it got them out of here.

Peter _tsk_ s. "Aren't you going to introduce us, Martin?"

Jon finally notices Peter. Jon's spine goes rigid; he looks like a cat fluffing itself to look bigger. "I'm Jon," he tells Peter. "And you are?"

"Peter Lukas." He reaches out a hand. "Charmed, I'm sure." 

A muscle ticks in Jon's jaw. He shakes Peter's hand just short of aggressively. Peter's got thirty centimeters on him, but Jon still looks like he's considering challenging Peter to a fistfight. "Sure." Without looking at Martin, Jon says, "I'm done here. Are you coming?"

Martin follows him to the register and outside. They're two blocks away when Martin realizes he's still holding the flogger. He nearly drops it on the ground. "Oh, shite, I should return this."

When he gets back to the store, however, the clerk says, "Mr. Lukas already paid for this."

Martin stands there for long, indecisive minutes, fingers running through the soft leather of the flogger's strands. It's heavy, and he can imagine it landing on his back, his arse, his thighs, until his entire hind side is a firestorm of sensation.

A hand lands on his shoulder. Martin startles, and the hand slips away. "Sorry," Jon says. "I didn't mean you shouldn't take it. Not on my account."

"I still shouldn't," Martin says, but he leaves the store holding it again. 

~

When Peter next calls him, he tells Martin to bring the flogger along, and Martin does.

Waiting outside Peter's flat, Martin can hear the murmur of people talking inside, a racuous laughter rising every so often. He hesitates a long time before knocking on the door.

Peter opens it, beaming. "Martin! Not a moment too soon." He turns to the room and bellows, "Refreshment's here!" He grabs Martin's arm before he can edge outside and pulls him in. Peter's living room is full of strangers, casually dressed. All of them are men, and all of them are leering at Martin. 

Peter locks the door behind him and sets about undressing Martin. Martin tries to bat his hands away. Peter looks at him and says, with a level voice, "Shall I have the lads hold you in place, then?"

Martin stands still for the rest of the disrobing, and lets Peter take the flogger away and blindfold him and lead him to a narrow waist-height surface. Peter pushes him to lie face down on it, arms and legs dangling off the sides. "Now be a good boy and stay still," Peter says, "and I'll prepare you before I let them take you, hm?"

Martin stays still.

The prep is quick and perfunctory, two thick, blunt fingers pushing into Martin. Then Peter steps away and declare, "All yours, boys."

A hand wraps tightly in Martin's hair, and something - a cock at his lips. Bare. Martin keeps his mouth shut. 

"I do have a spider gag here somewhere," Peter muses. "But do open your mouth, Martin. Don't think I won't make you regret it if you don't. No teeth, either."

Martin opens up.

The cock in his mouth is working its way toward his throat when someone comes ramming into Martin from behind. Martin muffles a shout and just barely avoids biting. Both cocks set up a brutal rhythm, a different one each, and Martin can't focus enough to keep his throat or his arse open. He's got tears in his eyes and soon enough they're streaming down his face, gagging and breached, but they won't stop.

Finally, the man in front comes. "Swallow," Peter says, sounding bored. Martin swallows. Almost as soon as the man moves away, another one takes his place, gripping Martin's hair and fucking his face. 

It happens over and over, until Martin can't keep count. He doesn't know how long it's been when he hears Peter's voice in his ear, low, a parody of intimacy. "If only your little friend could see you like this."

Martin bucks but the men at both sides have a firm grasp on him, cocks sliding in and out of him as sure and relentless as pistons. Peter also puts a hand on Martin's back, a warning, and Martin subsides.

"He seems like a bratty sort," Peter says. "Wonder what it'd take to train him to be as good a slut as you are." Martin makes a sharp, protesting noise. "You don't think I could do it? I adore a challenge, and I must say you haven't proved much of one." The hand in Martin's hair jerks, shoving the cock in his mouth deeper down his throat. "He'd be very pretty on his--"

"Fuck!" the man in front swears, because Martin bit him. He slaps Martin, a heavy hit. 

Martin doesn't care. "Don't talk about him like this. Don't bring him into this."

Peter sighs. "He's a bad influence on you. And now I suppose I must teach you a lesson."

The next thing Martin hears, apart from the grunts of the men fucking him, is a high whistle. He has a moment to try and connect the pieces, to understand what's going on, when he feels the skin on his back splitting. It happens again and again, Peter hitting him with whatever it is that feels like it's setting him on fire. Martin sobs, muffled around the cock in his mouth, and he's grateful that Peter at least stopped talking.

He doesn't know how long the men take with him. Possibly he passes out at some point. He gradually comes aware again, mouth tasting of semen, every part of his body aching. His back is numb. He's not sure whether to be glad of it or worried. He pulls off the blindfold. 

The men are all gone. There's just Peter, sat in a recliner, holding a tumbler with two fingers of whisky in one hand and a single tail whip in the other, looking at Martin. "Come here," he says.

Martin stands up. He walks to Peter.

"Don't ever call me again," he says.

He leaves the flogger behind him when he leaves.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains:  
> \- unsafe sex  
> \- gang rape  
> \- sexualized discussion of sex-repulsed character


	6. Chapter 6

The nurse at the clinic asks Martin, in a carefully neutral tone, if he wants a rape kit. Martin shakes his head and mumbles something about consent. He gets a blood test and antibiotic ointment. A few days later, the results come in: he hasn't escaped unscathed, but according to the doctor it's nothing a course of antibiotics won't fix. 

The numbness in Martin's back doesn't last, more's the pity, but it seems to have found a place in his heart instead. So he hurts, but it doesn't matter. 

He has ten days' worth of antibiotics, and he takes them scrupulously. Jon messages him a number of times. Martin says he's ill.

"Are you all right?" Sasha asks. She's taken him out for drinks, and he hasn't been much of a conversational partner. "You seem a little out of it."

"Suppose I am," Martin says. He manufactures a smile. "Don't worry about. So you were saying, about Andrew's partner...?"

 _Should I come make you tea?_ Jon messages. Martin takes three hours to reply, _best not. I might infect you._

He'd probably miss Jon if he felt anything right now. He knows that because the day he takes his last prescribed pill, his fingers start messaging Jon all on their own. 

To Martin's distant surprise, Jon is available that evening. He even ends his reply with an exclamation point. 

Jon hugs him when Martin gets in his flat, and something in Martin melts a little. He backs off. He doesn't want to be a blubbering mess while he's with Jon. 

They sit on the couch. Jon tentatively suggests that they use the new ropes. Martin is sure he'd be enthused if he could be, so he does his best to appear interested. 

Jon brings the ropes, takes one look at Martin, and says, "All right, no ropes, then."

Only then does Martin realize he's backed himself into the couch as far as he can and that he's tightly hugging himself. He can't imagine what expression he's wearing.

Shit. If he can't do rope, after he got Jon so invested, that can't be a good thing. Martin makes himself relax, one finger at a time. "We can," Martin says. His voice wobbles. He coughs and tries again. "It's fine. I'm fine."

"Are you?" Jon asks in that voice Martin can't disobey. 

Martin shuts his eyes and whispers, "No."

"So, no ropes," Jon says with equanimity. He exhales. "Do you want to go home?" Martin shakes his head vehemently. "Did you want to watch something, go somewhere, do anything else?"

He just wants Jon. His skin aches with numbness, like being submerged in ice. He wants to feel. 

Before Martin can think better of it, he says, "You said you had candles."

Jon blinks. "I do. What of them?"

Martin should shut the fuck up. He should go home. He can imagine the heat of molten wax seeping through the fog surrounding him, cutting through it like a hot knife through butter. "There's a thing where you drip wax on people."

Jon looks conflicted. "Don't you need special candles for that?"

"I've done it with regular candles before. It's fine."

Jon goes and takes a while coming back; when he does, he's looking at his phone. "These are paraffin," he says. "It should be fine." He has Martin sitting with his arms in his lap, palms up. "This is what you want?"

"If you do," Martin says.

Jon lets out a breath, and Martin flinches away from his frustrated expression. "What I _don't_ want," Jon says, "is to hurt you or cross your boundaries."

Helplessly, Martin says, "It will hurt. That's kind of the point." He sighs. "I do want it."

Jon starts dripping the wax from a ludicrous height. "Can you even hit my hand like this?" Martin says. "You can go much lower than that. It's fine, I promise."

It's more than fine. Each drop is a tiny spot of pain, but that just means Martin can feel it. Small, controlled, familiar pain, and warmth - from the cooling hardening wax, and from Jon sat so close to him. 

Tears start flowing just like wax. 

"Martin? Did I hurt you? Shite, I'll get some ice." Jon blows the candle. He gets up and without thinking, Martin grabs his arm. He lets go in a moment but Jon has turned back to him, Jon is kneeling on the couch next to Martin and wrapping skinny arms around him with force that doesn't really surprise Martin anymore. 

Martin tries to stop crying and explain, but all he can come up with are stuttering apologies. He holds on to Jon harder than he'd ever dared.

~

Martin wakes up in an unfamiliar bed. Someone in the other room is speaking, agitated. Martin gets up and looks through the cracked open doors.

"I'm not scared of emotional expression," Jon snaps into his phone. He pauses. "All right, I am, but that's not the problem here. He barely spoke to me for more than a week, he flinches at random and the way he moves--" another pause, as Jon keeps pacing the room. "It's wrong. Like he's hurt."

Without a word, Martin lets the door swing open. It creaks, catching Jon's attention. 

Jon turns to him. "I have to go," he says, and hangs up. "Martin--"

Martin is so tired. "I'm guessing that was Georgie."

"Yes." Jon's shoulders hunch. "I, I panicked, alright?"

Martin waves that off. "I don't mind." He sighs. "Things went badly with Peter. I won't be seeing him again."

"Good," Jon says fiercely, then ducks his head. "I mean. I'm sorry... No, no I'm not. You get to choose who's in your life but he's a creep and you're better off without him."

"I agree, hence not seeing him again," Martin says. "You should probably apologize to Georgie for hanging up on her without saying goodbye."

Jon stares at him, but rolls with the subject change: "Oh, good, now there's two people in my life telling me how to have relationships. Just what I needed."

"I'm pretty sure you're being sarcastic, but have you considered that it's true?" Martin's heart beats fast. Will Jon snap at him, or get angry, or--

"Possibly," Jon says. His face is sour, but he's stabbing his fingers into the phone keyboard, presumably to message Georgie. "She wants to meet you, you know."

Martin thinks about it. "She certainly sounds like an interesting person." He tugs at his shirt, self conscious. "Maybe when I'm less of a mess. If you want that."

Jon stops typing and tucks the phone in his pocket. He comes close with slow, deliberate steps. He pushes Martin's hair back from his forehead. His hand, tangled in Martin's hair, doesn't pull at all. "I do want that," Jon says, like he's confessing to a secret. "Can I kiss you here?" He touches his other thumb to Martin's forehead. 

Martin says yes, and Jon does. It feels as hot as the wax, drilling down into him until the tears come flowing again. 

"You were out for a while," Jon says, after holding Martin for a few minutes. "You shouldn't go home so late. I can take the couch, or we can share the bed." In his Dom voice, he asks, "What do you want?"

"Stay with me," Martin says, small as a mouse. "Bed, for both of us, please. Just to sleep."

"I know," Jon says. "I know."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In this chapter:  
> \- dissociation  
> \- nonsexual wax play  
> \- thinking of sexual assault and STDs as making one dirty/wrong/unworthy of things (which they do not)


	7. Chapter 7

Martin wakes up to Jon's alarm. He slept on his side, since his back still hurts. He groans quietly. Jon makes a nonverbal noise and they both rise from the bed. Jon goes to make tea. Martin feels a pang of conscience for not doing it for him, but he doesn't know Jon's kitchen and answering his questions would probably be harder for Jon than just making the tea himself. 

So Martin sits himself on the couch and waits for the tea Jon hands him. "Thank you," Martin murmurs. Jon makes another vague noise. Martin takes it he's not a morning person. (Jon's bedhead is atrocious. It's adorable.)

There are no spare toothbrushes, so Martin makes do with his finger and some toothpaste. Jon apologizes, and Martin gives him an incredulous look. "Right, because you should have expected me to crash here without any notice or bringing my own toothbrush."

None of Jon's clothes would fit him, so Martin resigns himself to wearing yesterday's clothes to work. A more pressing problem is that Martin didn't bring his ointment or gauze or tape. Maybe Jon has some, though, with the rest of his apocalypse kit. 

When Martin asks, Jon's eyes widen. "Christ, what did that bastard do to you?"

Martin wishes he'd just kept his mouth shut. "Nevermind. It's not a big deal." Most of his back's healed already, there's just two stubborn cuts that kept reopening. "I'll take care of it when I get home."

Jon visibly grinds his teeth. "You have work now. If you need to change bandages, you better do it before you go." He glares at Martin. "I'll be right back. Stay here."

Martin considers that he really needs to talk to Jon about not overusing his Dom voice, but he stays until Jon returns from the pharmacy with what looks like the entire contents of the shop. "Do you need help with the bandages?" Jon asks.

"I'm fine." Jon doesn't want to see him with his shirt off. Besides, "I've done okay so far."

It's ten minutes' work to take care of business, and then Martin's ready to go. Jon stops him at the door. 

"Martin. Can I ask you to promise me something?"

Thinking of all the things he hasn't managed in recent history, Martin says, "You can ask. Can't guarantee I'll agree."

Jon makes an abortive hand gesture. "Just - if you're ever in trouble and need someone. Please call me. Even if we've fought or broken up. I'll do what I can to help." 

"I wouldn't want to be a bother," Martin says. 

Jon spears him with his eyes. "You wouldn't be a bother. You'd be fulfilling the promise you made me."

All Martin can do is nod.

~

They next meet a day later. Martin comes by the institute to pick Jon up from work, awkwardly carrying a bag containing a toothbrush and a change of clothes. Just in case.

Jon had given him instructions to find his office - "Down the stairs to the basement, second door on the left, there's a very bad cartoon of me on the door," - and Martin makes his way. It's late enough that most other employees have gone home already, and the hallways are empty. 

Just as Martin reaches the stairs to the basement he sees an older white man in a suit. "Hold on, you look familiar," the man says. "You don't work here, do you?"

"N-no," Martin says. "I'm here to pick up Jon."

The man perks up. "Oh, so you're the reason why he's going home earlier! Wonderful." He holds out his hand. "Elias Bouchard, director of the Magnus Institute."

Alarmed, Martin says, "I mean, he still works really hard, he cares a lot about his job."

"Oh, certainly! I'm not at all worried about that. But he has been overworking himself, poor boy, so I'm glad to see him taking better care of himself." Mr. Bouchard chuckles. "Maybe the other employees will even succeed in dragging him out for drinks, one of these days. You still have the advantage of me," he says, wagging his still-reaching hand.

"Oh!" Martin hurries to shake it. "Martin, uh, Blackwood. Um. I'm Jon's. Friend?" They haven't discussed what they are to one another. 

Elias holds on to Martin's hand for just a tad too long. "Pleased to make your acquaintance. Now go get Jon out of here. Get some food in him, he's awfully thin." He leaves.

Martin stares after him, mumbling, "O...kay," to himself.

~

They go to the park that day. It's dark but for once it's not raining, even if all the benches are still wet. It's good to walk around under trees and over grass. Martin feels himself breathe a little easier. Jon walks next to him in companionable silence.

When they get tired of walking, they go to Jon's. "Will you be staying over?" Jon says.

"Do you want me to?" Martin says. Then, before Jon can answer, he holds a hand out. "Are you going to do the voice thing?"

Jon's brow furrows. "Which voice thing?"

"Your Dom voice. You know, where it gets all deep and I end up doing everything you say."

"I don't have a Dom voice!" Jon's voice goes softer. "Do I?"

"You do," Martin says. "It's not like, brainwashing. I just... want to do what you say, when you talk to me like that."

Jon opens and closes his mouth several times, and ends up giving Martin a baffled, helpless look.

"It's not bad, or anything," Martin hurries to add. "Just -- think twice before you use it, okay?"

"I think I know the voice you mean." Jon gets up to pace. "The difficulty is," he says, "unless I use it to make you tell me what you think, I'm worried you'll do things you don't want. But if I use it, then I'm making you do things you don't want to."

"I do want to," Martin interjects. "That's the point."

"Yes, but you know what I mean."

Martin subsides. "I didn't mean to make you self-conscious," he says. "You can use it if you need to know what I really want, or what I'm thinking. It's... good. Like you're giving me permission to say what I think, instead of it being a burden."

Jon stops in his tracks and rubs his eyes. "Martin," he says, conversationally, "have you ever considered you might have some issues with self esteem?"

"Is that supposed to be news to me?" Martin rolls his eyes. "I know I'm messed up. I try not to make it other people's problem." He takes a deep breath. "Will it help if I give you permission? You can ask me with the voice, whether I want to, and then you'll know."

Jon wears a conflicted expression. But he says, "All right." In his Dom voice, he asks, "Martin. Do you want me to use this voice to ask you what you want, what you need, how you're feeling, or anything else along that line?"

"Yes." The word comes out effortlessly. Martin's shoulders loosen; he hadn't even realized he was hunched. 

"Good." Still in the same voice, Jon asks, "What do you want, right now?"

"You," Martin says. "To be close to you, and know I'm not doing anything I shouldn't."

"All right. How about I tell you to stay still again?" This Jon says in his normal voice.

"That works." Martin hesitates, and adds, "I don't think you were going to, but. Don't pull my hair, okay?"

"I wasn't going to. That's correct." Jon adds, "But thank you for saying."

~

When Martin goes home that night, he still feels wrapped up in the memory of Jon's touch, Jon's voice. Jon ended up asking Martin how he felt, with the Dom voice, multiple times, which got Martin mumbling a bit about how much he liked this and how much he liked Jon. Embarrassing, but Jon looked so pleased that Martin can't bring himself to mind. As he goes to bed, the memory stays around him like another blanket.

Sleep strips it away.

In his dreams, Martin sees fragments of everything he'd done with Peter. He wakes up crying and erect. He wills for his dick to go down, but it stays there, and Martin's hands are drawn to it despite his best efforts. 

He tries to think of nothing except the physical sensation, but memories assault him: the bell around his prick and balls, Peter's scent, Peter calling him filthy names. Martin goes harder, and cries harder, and comes sobbing. He curls up on his side and keeps sobbing for a while.

Christ, he's pathetic.

~

The next time Martin jerks off, he's in the shower. He ends up on the floor, curled up in fetal position, eyes leaking tears and cock leaking come. Disgusting. He wonders if that's how Jon sees sex all the time. Martin wishes he did the same, that he could stop wanting-- stop wanting. 

"I'm not doing this anymore," he says, words echoing in the bathroom. He shouldn't need to. He has Jon, who hugs him and ties him up, and Martin shouldn't want more than that. That should be enough for anyone.

~

He manages to keep from jerking off for the next few days, which makes him proud of himself and cranky in turns. It's probably just a matter of time until he gets used to it. The crankiness makes him want to snap at Jon sometimes, for being so careful with him. Martin can take so much more than Jon's been giving him. But Martin doesn't want to be demanding. 

It comes out anyway.

"What do you want?" Jon says one day, Dom-voice, when he and Martin are cuddled on the couch.

"I want to have sex," Martin says, then claps his hand over his mouth. "Not with you! Urgh." He slaps his forehead. "I'm sorry."

Jon looks annoyed. "Martin, I'm not going to burst into flames because you said the word _sex_ next to me. I asked, I got an answer that isn't applicable, we can move on."

Martin nods, humiliation sitting hot and hard in his belly. To compound things, it's making his libido perk up. He can't wind up hard while cuddling Jon, he just can't. "Excuse me," he says, extricating himself from Jon.

"Why?" Jon asks, again with the Dom voice.

"Because I'm getting hard and I don't want to do that with you," Martin snaps. He hugs himself. "I'm sorry," he finds himself saying. "I wish I was like you, I wish I didn't want all of this. I'm trying."

For a moment, there is silence. Then Jon asks, "What are you trying to do?"

"Stop jerking off." Martin glares at Jon. "I'm not sorry for that one. If you didn't want to know, you shouldn't have asked."

"I did ask, because I did want to know!" Jon drags his hand through his hair. It's shaking. "Martin, for crying out loud. Stop acting like I'm five. Do you think I just go, _Oh, Martin's clearly unhappy, but it's to do with icky stuff so I don't care_?"

"You shouldn't!" Martin yells. "You shouldn't, because it's wrong and gross and you're--" he shuts his mouth.

"Finish what you were saying," Jon says.

It's not his Dom voice, but Martin says it anyway. "You're better than that."

"I'm _not_ ," Jon says. "I'm not better than anything, I'm just-- a person! Stop trying to make me into this, this paragon because I don't like sex! It's messing you up and dehumanizing me, so kindly just... stop."

"I can't," Martin whispers. "I can't. I don't know how."

"Well, until you can, please don't do it here." Jon says, and turns away. "I need to work early tomorrow." It's a bald-faced lie and Martin knows it, but he takes the dismissal for what it is.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In this chapter:  
> \- internalized sex-negativity and accompanying self-loathing  
> \- jerking off to traumatic events  
> \- pedestalization of ace character which is called out  
> \- kink negotiation  
> \- jon and martin fight  
> \- elias being creepy


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please fasten your seatbelts, we're experiencing some turbulence.

Jon doesn't message Martin, and Martin doesn't message him.

It's fine.

Martin starts writing emails to Tim in the States, and keeps deleting everything. What would he write? _I finally found something good and I messed it up_? _I dated an asshole who didn't care about me, but don't worry, I stopped once he shared me with all of his friends without asking me first_?

They're doing inventory at Sasha's workplace, so that she works ridiculous hours and comes home spent. She texts Martin every so often, but she can't quite hold a conversation. This is fine, too.

It's evening. Martin's flatmates are out. Martin would turn on the telly just for the background noise, but it's busted, and his phone doesn't have the same effect. He picks up said phone and looks at his recent phone calls list. Jon, Jon, Jon, Sasha, Jon... and the home his mum's in.

Well. It's been a while. It's worth a try.

The receptionist, William, answers on the third ring. "Sunshine Acres home, how can I help?"

With a lump in his throat, Martin says, "It's Martin, uh, Blackwood?" He really needs to stop saying his full name like he can't remember what his surname is. "I'm calling for my mother--"

"Margaret, yes. Just a moment, I'll check." The floral waiting music comes on. Martin stares at the wall. Then it stops, and William says, "I'm afraid she's not taking calls." An awkward pause commences. "Maybe next week, the weather's supposed to warm up and she's always in a better mood when it's sunny." The pity in his voice is just short of unbearable.

"Thank you," Martin says, and hangs up.

He keeps scrolling down the recent calls list. He tells himself he doesn't know why, even as his fingers pause on a particular number. Even as his phone dials.

"Hello," Peter says, and Martin's done deluding himself. "Fancy hearing from you again."

Martin shuts his eyes and says, "Can we talk?"

~

Peter's flat is dead silent this time. It still takes Martin a long time to knock.

 _Why are you doing this?_ The thought rages inside him, a voice that sounds a lot like Jon. _Why, why, why?_

He knocks, and Peter opens the door. He's not smiling this time. "Well, Martin?" Peter says, after a long pause. "What do you have to say for yourself?"

"Do you really want to have this conversation in the corridor?" Martin counters.

"We wouldn't want to disturb the neighbors," Peter agrees, and ushers Martin in. "Only I was under a very strong impression you wanted nothing to do with me. I wouldn't want to do anything to make you uncomfortable."

Martin laughs, short and harsh. "That's a good one." He crosses his arms. "I want you to fuck me."

"Well, well." Peter sits down in the recliner. He doesn't offer that Martin take a seat. "That's an interesting turnaround. Why should I say yes?"

Martin blinks. Somehow, he didn't expect this part. Intelligently, he says, "Um?"

"You're a good hole to fuck," Peter says, "but there's plenty of those around London, and you didn't seem quite as biddable the last time we spoke. Wouldn't want you biting me, eh? Or making any more dramatic gestures. I abhor drama."

Martin stays silent. He doesn't know how to answer. The thought of Peter rejecting him here and now, is just... his mind won't bend around it.

There's a tumbler next to Peter, and he takes it and tosses back it's contents. "Say you'll make it worth my while," Peter says, with a hint of coaxing.

Martin closes his eyes. "I'll--"

"No. Look at me."

Martin opens his eyes. Peter is sat there, legs splayed open, the beginning of a smile dawning on his face. "I'll make it worth your while."

"Mm. Try being more persuasive." Peter moves his glass, and the drink inside sloshes. "Like you believe it."

Martin takes a deep breath. "I'll do whatever you want." He won't have a choice, will he? "I, I'll be good."

"It might be more convincing if you were on your knees," Peter says. "Why don't you try that?"

The moments between standing upright and kneeling on the floor feel like an eternity. The floor is hard, unforgiving on his knees. "Please," Martin says. "I'm sorry. Please." He hates Peter, hates him like burning, but he hates himself worse.

Peter's zipper comes undone with a silken hiss. "Why don't you show me," Peter says, "just how sorry you are."

As reparations go, this is far easier than what Martin expected. He takes Peter's cock in his mouth slowly, cautiously, expecting some trick or twist to make this all much more horrible. But it's just Peter's dick, like some throwback to their first meeting. Peter doesn't even fuck his face. For once, he lets Martin do all the work.

"Passable," Peter says some time later. He's fully hard, painfully stretching Martin's jaw. "Why don't you take off these clothes and come here."

Martin's sat in Peter's lap, riding his cock, when Peter reaches into a side-table drawer and takes out a little jewel box. Martin's muscles tense up. Peter opens it to show a pair of... something Martin doesn't recognize, a small, straight silvery metal line with white gems on either edge. Could be diamond or glass, for all Martin knows.

Peter takes one, unscrews one gem and reveals a needle-sharp edge. Martin's still not sure what's happening when Peter grabs Martin's nipple with his other hand.

Martin has time for one clear mental _Oh no_ before Peter drives that edge through his nipple.

Martin doesn't scream, shocked silent and numb. He hears the sound the needle-edge made, going through his flesh. He doubts he'll ever forget it. His nipple bleeds.

When Peter does the other one, Martin does scream.

"There we go," Peter says, satisfied. "Now you see, don't you?" He slaps Martin's arse. "Did I tell you to stop riding me?" Martin just stares at him, stunned. "Oh, I see how it is." He pulls on the newly installed piercing, and Martin follows his movement helplessly. "I like this," Peter says, after guiding Martin this way through a few thrusts. "But perhaps..." He shoves Martin off him so suddenly Martin barely keeps from tipping over. "Bedroom. On the bed, on your back."

Martin sends one desperate look towards the door. But it's too late, isn't it? He knew what he was getting into, coming here. He's got nobody to blame but himself. Isn't this what Martin wanted, after all, for someone to drive in how disgusting he is? How damaged?

He lies down on his back and stares at the ceiling. He doesn't deserve to close his eyes, even if Peter permitted it. 

Peter doesn't leave him alone for long. Soon enough he's lying over Martin, fucking him deep. A bead of Peter's sweat falls on Martin's face, and Martin struggles not to recoil. 

When one of Peter's hands comes up to torment one of Martin's wounded nipples, Martin's not surprised. He clenches his jaw shut and bears it. But Peter's mouth, coming to lap at the the other nipple... Martin can't explain why that gets to him, that wrongness sharper than pain.

"No," he whimpers. "No. No. Red. Safeword."

Peter just laughs, more sensation than sound, reverbating through Martin's bones. He doesn't stop.

 _Why would he?_ Martin thinks, in a moment of dizzy clarity. _It means he's won._

He screams again when Peter bites down hard, so hard he half expects to see a chunk taken out of his chest. Peter raises his head and smiles at Martin with his teeth stained red. A lifetime ago, Martin found him attractive.

"Oh, little lad," Peter says. "We've only just begun."

~

Peter falls asleep after. Martin struggles to put on his clothes with numb hands and legs it out of there. 

He walks and walks until he's thoroughly lost, chilled through because he forgot his coat at Peter's. Trembling, he pulls his phone out. God, he's weak. He can't even take--

Jon answers on the second ring, sounding groggy, and Martin feels a pang of shame at waking him up. Jon doesn't sleep enough. "What? Martin?"

"I promised," Martin says. His voice sounds awful, choked and raw. "You asked me to promise to call, if I needed, so I'm calling. Okay?"

"What do you need?" Jon sounds instantly alert. 

Martin swallows. His throat hurts. "I don't want to be alone," he says. "Can I just, I'll stay on the couch--"

"Come over," Jon says, so soft that Martin doesn't know what to do with himself. "We'll sort it out."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In this chapter:
> 
> \- Peter-typical awfulness  
> \- ignoring of explicit no and safeword  
> \- noncon nipple piercing and unsanitary handling thereof  
> \- self-loathing and self-destruction  
> \- Martin's mum not taking his calls


	9. Chapter 9

Jon calls a taxi for Martin, and stays on the phone with him as Martin gets on and off again. He waits for Martin with his flat door open.

"You have to still be mad at me," Martin says. "What I said wasn't okay."

Jon says, "That's true. Now come in. Where's your coat?"

Bile burns in Martin's throat. "Left it at Peter's." He walks inside.

"Peter? I thought--" Jon cuts himself off. "I'll get you something warm."

In the middle of the living room, Martin stops walking and turns to Jon. "Why are you doing this?" he says softly. "Why would you help?"

"Right now? Because I wouldn't anyone stay out on the street when they sounded like you did. We can fight when you're less pitiful." Jon brings a blanket, makes an abortive motion to drape it over Martin, then hesitates. "Do you withdraw consent for me to use that voice?" Martin shakes his head. In the Dom voice, Jon asks, "Are you okay with me touching you? Taking care of you?"

"Yes. Please," Martin whispers. He shuts his eyes and shudders as Jon puts the blanket over him. If he starts crying now, he doesn't think he'll be able to stop.

"Do you want to tell me what happened?"

Martin shudders again for a whole different reason. "Really, really not."

"Okay. You don't have to." Jon draws a breath. "Where do you want to sleep? On the couch, or with me?"

"With you." The words are painful to say. Martin doesn't feel like he deserves that, like he deserves anything. Even if you could say differently about the previous encounters with Peter, this one was all Martin's fault. But Jon asked, so Martin answered.

"We can do that." Jon presses gently on Martin's shoulder. "Tea?" Martin just nods. "I know a fluffy blanket and tea can't fix everything, but I figure they won't make it worse, under the circumstances."

Martin wraps the blanket around him and tries to drown his senses in the scent of chamomile. 

~

This time, it's not Jon's alarm waking him but Jon himself. "Martin." Jon's mouth is a firm line. "Wake up. You're burning up."

Martin does feel feverish, though normally he'd have ascribed it to.... when does it stop being subdrop and starts to become PTSD? 

That doesn't matter. He sits up, groggy, blanket still bunched around him. "'M up."

Jon asks in his Dom voice, "Do you need to see a doctor?"

"Dunno." Jon's bed is nice. Martin would like to stay here for ten years or so. The blanket drops away. Martin scratches at his side, where he's feeling weirdly sticky. That's strange, he showered before he went to bed. 

Now Jon's staring at his shirt. His voice sounds odd when he says, "Scratch that. You need to see a doctor."

Martin follows the direction of Jon's gaze. There's something wet on the front of his shirt, darkening the fabric, in a circle around his right nipple and spreading outwards. Weakly, Martin says, "I think I'm gonna puke."

Jon fetches him a bucket.

~

Chance would have it that the nurse is the same one Martin met last time. She looks at Jon and says, "I need to see him alone, it's the policy."

Martin doesn't know policy, but he suspects he knows what she's trying to do. "Can he stay? Please? He didn't do this." He looks at Jon and bites his lip. "I mean. If you want to stay." 

"I'll stay." Jon lurks in the background like a gargoyle. He hisses, though, when Martin takes his shirt off at the nurse's order. Though the bruises around Martin's nipples are distorted by the swelling, they're still recognizable as toothmarks. "That son of a--"

"Still consensual?" the nurse asks.

"Um." Martin deflates. "I'm not gonna go to the police. What's the use? He can afford lawyers who'll run me into the ground." He looks down and says, lowly, "And I did come to him."

The nurse quickly glances out at the corridor. "I can refer you to some kink-friendly professionals, if you'd like. Therapists, mostly, but I know a lawyer, too."

Martin blinks. "Oh." He considers. "I don't think I can handle a police investigation all the same. Thank you."

Jon emerges from the shadows. "May I have the number for one of the therapists?"

"I have a whole list. I'll drop by and bring it later, your friend's going to need to wait a while until the doctor can see him anyway."

"Thank you," Martin says, quiet but whole-heartedly. 

~

Thankfully, it's Saturday and Martin's off work. He can't imagine showing up like this: even bandaged, he feels like a walking health and safety violation. 

Jon's quiet until they're back in his flat. Martin still doesn't want to go home, but Jon hadn't even asked, just acted as though it was obvious that Martin would come to his. 

"What if I had sex with you?" Jon asks when go inside.

Martin turns to him and stares. Jon doesn't look like he's joking. His fists are clench, and he looks as taut as a violin string. "What? No!" Martin's voice comes out half an octave too high. "Why would you even ask that?"

Jon gives him an even look. "If I had sex with you, would you promise not to go to Peter Lukas again?" He swallows. "I realize I may not be what you--"

"No!" Martin feels ill. "I'll promise-- I promise. Never again. Just stop asking that." He concentrates on his breathing. "I know you don't want to." 

"I'd rather have sex than see you hurt by him," Jon says grimly. 

"Well, I won't. I promised. I won't." Martin's breath is ragged. He focuses on not crying. "Please, just... stop."

Jon runs his hand down his own face. "I'm just making this worse, aren't I?" He pulls out his phone, grimaces, and shoves it back in his pocket.

Slowly, Martin says, "Were you just going to message Georgie?"

Jon's eyes flicker guiltily. "She's better at this stuff than me."

 _You're better than you give yourself credit for,_ Martin thinks. All he says is, "If you want her opinion, go ahead and ask. I don't mind. Might do us good."

~

Georgie Barker is a pretty woman: black, with short dreads and freckles, dressed in purple jeans and a peach shirt. She also makes good tea, and is a good listener. The whole miserable story comes tumbling out of Martin. Jon stiffens occasionally, when Martin mentions parts Jon hadn't known. Martin doesn't go into all the gory details, but he thinks he paints a comprehensive enough picture.

"Well," Georgie says, stirring her tea. "I'm honestly not sure what you expect me to do. You've been through awful things, Martin, and I'm sorry that happened to you. You need help - professional help. I hope you get that." She pauses. "I will say, though, that that promise is a spectacularly bad idea."

Jon looks like he wants to snap at her, but instead asks, "What do you mean?"

Georgie looks at Martin. "You weren't looking for sex, were you, Martin? You were trying to hurt yourself." Martin nods, slow and wordless. "I've known people who self-harmed. If you make them promise not to, they'll just break the promise, feel worse, and want to hurt themselves more." She pauses. "None of this makes what happened to you your fault, you know." She stalls Martin's nascent protest. "This Peter person shouldn't have done that no matter what, to anyone."

"I begged him," Martin whispers. He stares at the floor. He can't even look Jon or Georgie in the face.

Georgie's voice is even when she says, "Did you keep saying yes the whole way through? Did he ask, and you told him to keep going, before everything he did? Was there no point where you froze, or struggled?"

"Well. I did say no. And, um. Safeword. We didn't agree on one, so I just said _safeword_ ," Martin says. Jon makes a wounded sound. 

"And he kept going?" Martin nods. "Then he's a rapist, and I hope he gets castrated," Georgie says, still sounding calm. "You don't have a moral obligation to not be raped, that doesn't make any sense. But if you stop going to him, that would probably be better all around. Only I don't know how to get you to do that and Jon doesn't either."

"You said you knew people who self-harmed," Jon says. "What did they do?"

"Therapy. Loads of it. Sometimes medications. And usually they kept off dating until they were better."

"Don't give him ideas." Jon smacks his forehead, then glares at Martin. "If you decide to break up with me for my own good, I'll...." He gesticulates wildly, then deflates. "I'll be miserable, is what I would be."

"For the record, I'm not sure if that's a bad idea," Georgie says. "You've been dating, what, three weeks?"

"Six," Jon mutters sulkily. 

"In that time, you've had to deal with issues it takes years to heal. I feel for you, Martin, I do, and I hope you find something that helps you. But a romantic relationship, any romantic relationship, isn't going to do that, and it's unfair to Jon to make him try. Also, Jon can be an arse, you're in a delicate place, and I'd hate to see you two hurting one another."

"Oh, so people are only allowed to date when they're 110% certified issue-free?" Jon snaps. 

Georgie sighs. "Don't put words in my mouth. I have no say over whether you two stay together. But you're my friend, and I don't want you getting in over your head."

"Objection noted."

"I'll go to therapy," Martin says, meek and tiny. "I'll try. I will."

Jon looks at him with sorrow in his eyes. "Just... Try to care about your own boundaries half as much as you care about mine. A tenth. Just try." 

Martin only realizes there are tears streaming down his face when Jon reaches to grab him into a powerful hug. He holds on to Jon. It's all he can do.

"Right," Georgie says. "I think that's enough dealing with painful issues for now, how about we watch a movie?"

As they sit down in front of Georgie's television, an orange cat slinks inside. "The Admiral, I presume?" Martin reaches to let the cat sniff at his palm. 

The Admiral sniffs, makes a determined _mrrp!_ and jumps into Martin's lap, where he settles and starts aggressively purring.

Nobody says anything when Martin starts crying again, but Jon slings an arm over his shoulders and pulls him close. Martin has no idea what happens in the movie, knows nothing but a lasting feeling of warmth and being liked - wanted, even.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In this chapter:
> 
> \- internalized victim blaming and sex negativity  
> \- discussion of self-harm (which is very partial - there are more kinds of self harm than discussed here)  
> \- Jon offers to have sex with Martin, who strongly refuses  
> \- infected piercing  
> \- vomiting mention
> 
> Please note that even if Martin would have told Peter that he consents explicitly to everything - it still wouldn't be Martin's fault. As it is, it is definitely Peter's fault. Also, as people generally don't self-harm for fun, it's less than helpful to say "it would be better if you didn't do that". even if that's true.


	10. Chapter 10

As they go back to Jon's flat, he seems agitated. Like there's something on his mind. When they get there, Martin asks about it.

Jon hesitates. "I shouldn't be making this about me."

Martin wishes he had a Dom voice of his own. "You're in this, too. Besides, I want to hear."

That's all Jon needs. He springs up from the couch like a Jack-in-the-box and starts pacing. "Why does everyone in my life act like I need coddling? First you, now Georgie."

"People care about you," Martin says, feeling weirdly defensive of Georgie's honor. "I like that she wants to protect you."

"Yes, and that would be very nice if it were at all necessary!" When Jon turns to Martin, his expression is almost pleading. "I like what we have. I don't want to lose it when I only just found it."

Helplessly, Martin says, "She didn't say you had to. She was worried, that's all."

Jon scowls. "The idea of you having to wait until you're better to date is ridiculous. She said it could take years, and you're, what, meant to be a hermit all this time? How is that supposed to help?"

"She didn't say I couldn't have friends," Martin points out. "I think I get it. Chronic diseases can last forever, but you can still have worse periods where it's not a good idea to start new things."

"This isn't starting. This would be breaking something already in progress, which works fine, for no good reason."

A thought occurs to Martin. "Have you been calling her every time something came up between us?"

Jon pauses his pacing. "Maybe," he says, warily.

"Well, if the only thing she knows about me is every time we've fought or that I was in trouble, why shouldn't she think I'm bad for you?" Martin thinks that's quite sensible. "And maybe she's tired of having to deal with my issues by proxy."

"She could have said," Jon mumbles, but he looks guilty. "And you get to have help with your issues, God knows I needed help with mine. Still do."

"But you're her friend, and I'm not." Martin opens his arms, and Jon comes settle next to him on the couch. "That's okay. I have my own friends."

Jon burrows close, resting his head against Martin's shoulder. "Have you talked to any of them about it?"

Martin stares at the corner of the living room. It holds no answer. "I probably should, shouldn't I." He shakes his head. "But not tonight, okay?"

"No, you've definitely done your share for today," Jon says. "It might be sleeping time. Do you need help with your bandages?" 

"It's on my chest, it's no problem to reach." Martin pets Jon's dark hair, pleased when Jon makes quiet, contented noises. Martin bites his own lip. "How about we stay here just a little longer?"

"Um. Actually, can I ask you for something?" Jon asks.

"Of course. What is it?"

"It's silly." Jon fidgets with his hands. "But... could you maybe lie down on top of me? I'm a little wound up, and weight can be relaxing."

"Oh! Sure!" Martin eyes the couch. "But maybe better to do that in bed?"

On the bed, Martin carefully lowers himself onto Jon. He keeps himself pushed up on his arms, so he doesn't squish Jon.

Jon, however, has insistent hands pushing down on Martin's back. "I know what I can take," he says. "Let me feel you."

Slowly, little by little, Martin lets himself sink until Jon has all his weight. "Are you okay?" he asks, tense with anxiety.

It takes Jon a moment to answer. Then he says, "I'm good," in a voice more relaxed than Martin has ever heard from him. "You feel nice."

"Really? Not too heavy?"

"Perfect." Jon's hands stay on him, demanding, proprietary. "Just... perfect."

Martin lowers his head to bury his face in Jon's neck, breathing him in until he feels like he's melting.

~

Rays of sun on his face slowly coax Martin awake. Jon's next to him, looking warm and rumpled and Martin really wants to touch him. 

He's spared the dilemma of whether touching sleeping Jon is permitted when Jon's eyes open. He gives Martin a bleary look. "Okay?" He says, voice hoarse with sleep. 

"Okay," Martin says. "Can I kiss your face?"

"Not my mouth, but anywhere else, go ahead." As Martin does, Jon's hands sneak behind Martin's neck, pulling him close. 

Emboldened by his request being granted, Martin asks permission and nuzzles Jon's collarbone, too prominent under his thin t-shirt. "We should have breakfast," Martin says.

Instead of answering, Jon grunts and gets off the bed. Martin follows him.

"You should show me where things are," Martin says when they get to the kitchen. "So I can make you tea."

Jon gives him a look too sleepy to be a proper glare. "Why should you do that? It's my house."

"I like to. I like doing things for people." The words come out easily, even though Jon is using his normal voice. Martin feels oddly light, as though something heavy and toxic poured out of him and disappeared. Like everything is going to be okay. 

This feeling is not going to last, but Martin wants to enjoy it while it's here, like the fleeting sunshine. "We should have a picnic," Martin says. "Go out to the park and enjoy the weather."

Jon agrees to this, although he stipulates tea first. That's fine by Martin. 

They go buy food, since Jon's apartment is bare of anything but takeaway leftovers from yesterday and nearly-expired milk. Martin eyes a box of ludicrously overpriced berries; Jon drops them in the cart, and Dom-voices Martin into admitting he doesn't mind Jon paying.

The park is packed. Apparently everyone in London had the same idea Martin did, but there's still room for Jon and him to sit down with their fruit and sandwiches. They don't speak much. There's the noise of humanity all around them, small children running and shrieking, music someone is playing too loud.

Martin slips his hand into Jon's and closes his eyes, the better to feel the sweetness of berries in his mouth and the sun on his face. 

~

Martin's just heading home from work when his phone rings. He brightens when he sees Jon's number. 

"Are you free Friday night?" Jon asks, without preamble, when Martin answers.

"Mm, let me check my calendar," Martin says. "Of course I'm free, don't be daft."

"There's some sort of function at the institute. Apparently I'm encouraged to bring a plus one, especially, I quote, _that nice young man_."

"Who's that? You should introduce us." Martin chuckles. 

"Ha ha." Martin can imagine Jon rolling his eyes across the line. "So you'll come?"

"Sure. Haven't got anything nice to wear, though." Martin pictures the contents of his wardrobe and winces. 

"Elias said to just come and not worry about it."

Dubiously, Martin says, "O...kay, I suppose. If I'm the only one there in jeans, though, I may have to stage an escape."

Jon's voice is warm when he says, "Just make sure to take me with you if you do."

~ 

Martin was right. Everyone at the event is wearing something fancy. Even Jon is wearing nice slacks and a button down. He does look very handsome, the dark blue of the shirt offsetting the cool tones of his skin, the silver in his hair gleaming. Martin would be very happy to be seen with him, if only he weren't feeling like an embarrassment. 

Martin's in the middle of coming up with an escape route when they're cornered by none other than Mr. Bouchard. (Though Jon called him Elias. Does that mean Martin can do the same?)

"Ah, just who I wanted to see," Mr Bouchard tells them, beaming. "I have something to show the two of you. Follow me, please."

Jon and Martin trade alarmed looks. "Might as well see what it is," Jon says.

Mr. Bouchard leads them to a dark corridor, opens a door and beckons them in. Jon goes in first, but before Martin can follow him, Jon steps back. "Martin." There is urgency in Jon's voice. "Stay here. Don't go in there."

Martin fidgets. "But your boss said--"

From inside the room, Mr. Bouchard says, airily, "If you prefer he stays outside, I shan't argue with you, but I do think at least one of you should be aware of this." He shuts the door, and Martin can only hear muffled conversation. He recognizes Jon's voice, though he can't make out the word, and Mr. Bouchard. He thinks there might be a third voice, but he isn't sure.

Then he is, because the third voice says loudly, "How do you have this tape?"

Peter.

Before Martin can run or hide, he hears Jon yelling, " _Why_ do you have this tape?"

Martin stands rooted to the spot, feeling about to faint. A tape. He can only imagine what's on it, and he feels sick at the idea of Jon seeing it on about five different levels.

It seems to take forever before the door opens. Jon stares daggers at the people inside, grabs Martin's arm and says, "We're leaving." Martin's got no argument to that.

He waits until they're back at Jon's to ask, "What the hell happened?"

Jon rubs at his face and collapses onto the couch. Martin sits next to him. "He... fuck, it's complicated. I'll see if I remember it all."

It's not just complicated, it's ridiculous. Turns out that Mr. Bouchard arranged for a video of... some of Martin's experiences... to be taken by one of the men who were there. Mr. Bouchard intended to send it to Peter's brother, who apparently holds the purse strings and wouldn't like his family indulging in that sort of decadence.

"How is he afraid of being blackmailed?" Martin demands. "A kink store knows him by name."

"Lukases are mostly recluses," Jon says. "They're not likely to get random gossip from London. Elias, however, has their address."

In addition to demanding a sum of money that made Martin feel faint, Mr. Bouchard decreed that should Peter engage in any more "trysts", with Martin or any other person, that video will be on its way to Nathaniel Lukas after all. 

Martin tries not to stare. "Why would he do that?"

Jon's expression turned sheepish. "He said he doesn't like me being distracted. Apparently I'm his favourite employee," the last words were muttered, "and he wants me to have my head in the game. Originally he just told Peter to stay away from you and me, but I said I'm not going to be at peak performance if I know he's out there raping other people."

After a few aborted attempts to speak, Martin says, "I'm not sure if the fact that I'm grateful outranks the fact that that entire business was _creepy as all hell_."

"Elias can be like that," Jon says with a sigh.

That sounds like... not the best attitude to have when dealing with a creepy employer, in Martin's opinion, but given Martin's position in retail hell - not to mention his overall life right now - he doesn't feel like he has much of a right to say anything about that. But even so, "Your boss has a video of me having sex. That's... not great."

"He promised to give me the last copy and delete all the rest," Jon says, but he looks troubled.

"And you trust him to do that?"

"No." Jon exhales. "But unless we go to the police, I don't see what we could do about it."

They sit for a few moments in silence.

"On the plus side," Martin says, "hopefully that means we'll never see Peter again, and that he won't be hurting anyone else."

"I hope so." Jon stares at the ceiling. "I really do."

Martin draws Jon gently to him. Jon comes along, plastering himself along Martin's side. "No use thinking of that anymore. Do you want to go to bed?"

Jon... clings, there's no other word for it. "In a little bit."

"In a little bit," Martin agrees, stroking down Jon's back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In this chapter:
> 
> \- Some more discussion of self harm. it should be pointed out that neither Jon, nor Georgie, nor in fact me the writer, are experts on this.   
> \- Elias being a creep  
> \- Nonconsensually videotaping someone being raped  
> \- Showing this video to their boyfriend, when neither of them consents to this  
> \- Technically workplace sexual harrassment


	11. Chapter 11

Possibly pacing is catching. That would explain what Martin's doing, walking from one end of his bedroom to the other, although that's about three small steps. His hand keeps reaching for the phone, and he keeps noticing the motion and lowering his hand again. 

_Just tell Tim you're not coming,_ says a voice in Martin's head, seductive and insidious. _Meet him some other time, when you know how to explain._

Martin huffs humourless laughter. He knows that's not true, that avoidance will only make him more freaked out about meeting Tim, and before he knows it'll be six months they hadn't talked to one another and Tim assuming Martin doesn't like him anymore. 

And still he finds himself thinking, _Just this once._

But it's never just once, and if Martin doesn't get out he'll be late. In a burst of motion, Martin walks out the door, barely remembering to grab the hoodie serving for his coat until he buys a new one. 

Tim's flat is nicer than Martin's: only one flatmate, who's out at the moment, and larger rooms. Tim grabs Martin into a rough hug. Martin melts, a little, into the contact. Tim's got a solid presence, which takes up enough space for Martin to to feel supported.

They sit on Tim's bed. Tim has pictures from his trip, people he's met and places he's been, and every picture has a story attached. 

"...and then he says, I know you drive on the wrong side of the road, but I didn't know it extended to that," Tim says. 

Martin's responding chuckle is weak, and he's very annoyed with himself for that. Tim is genuinely funny, has interesting stories and a good delivery, but Martin is... distracted.

Tim notices. "Anyway, how are things with you? What have you been up to while I wasn't around?"

"I have a boyfriend," Martin says. It makes him blush, which is ridiculous, even if he and Jon only agreed to use the b-word a couple of days ago. 

"So you did meet someone at the party!" Tim perks up. "Tell me all about it."

Martin winces. "Um. Not exactly. I met Jon in a speed-dating event Sasha organized. The party...." His voice dies down. "That hadn't gone well. Can we talk about that another time? I don't want to ruin the mood."

"Sure." Tim shifts. "So, if you have a boyfriend, does that mean our arrangement is off?"

"We're not exclusive." Martin's heart beats a little faster. He's missed Tim. Daring, he raises a hand to Tim's face, brushes it over his cheek. 

Tim gives him an easy, langourous smile, and moves in for a deep kiss. Martin lets his senses saturate themselves in Tim's presence. He may have made a small noise when Tim bites his bottom lip, not particularly gently. He and Tim had always had fantastic chemistry in bed. 

As they kiss, Martin vaguely registers that Tim's hand is on his hip and sliding upwards, under his shirt. He seems to remember not wanting Tim to touch him there, but he can't remember why he wouldn't want that when Tim's hand is so broad and warm. 

Then Tim freezes, and memory slams back into Martin. Right. That's what he wanted to avoid.

"Martin," Tim says with great deliberation, "what have you got on your back?"

"Right. Um. Those." Martin swallows. "They have to do with what I didn't want to discuss." While he's at it, he adds, "you probably shouldn't touch, um, my nipples, either. And please don't pull my hair."

"You love to have your hair pulled," Tim says, surprised. He shakes himself. "I mean, if you don't want then I won't, of course not."

"Got put off it," Martin says shortly. 

Tim whistles softly. "Christ, Martin, what happened?"

It's dramatic and petty, but Martin takes off his shirt. His chest is still bandaged; the cuts on his back have healed, but Martin scars easily. "This happened."

Tim's utterly silent for a long moment. When he finally speaks, it's with a low, controlled voice. "Who did that? Your boyfriend?"

"What? No! Jon wouldn't--" Martin fumbles to explain, ending with, "He wouldn't. As to who did...." He shrugs. "Someone I met at a party. He won't do it again."

He sees the thoughts running through Tim's mind, sees the moment Tim puts two and two together by the way his face crumples. "The party I sent you to?"

Martin sighs and takes a hand through his hair. "This is why I didn't want to get into this with you. Yes, it happened at that party, no, it wasn't your fault."

"Fuck. Fuck, Martin, I am so fucking sorry." He waves off Martin's objections. "I don't care whose fault it is, I'm so sorry that happened to you."

With a valiant attempt at humour, Martin says, "It could have been perfectly consensual. You don't know what happened."

"I know it left you injured and turned you off something you used to like a lot. You've never been into scarring, you're barely into pain at all." Tim shakes his head. "Consensual or not, this guy sounds bad. Irresponsible and careless, at the very least." 

Martin says, "Honestly, he was worse than that." He glanced at Tim. "There goes your mood, I suppose."

"Unless you mean the mood to skin whoever did this to you, suppose so," Tim says. "But I might be distracted from that if you kiss me some more." He waggles his eyebrows. 

Martin pulls his shirt back on. ("You don't have to." "I know, but I'd rather have it all out of sight.") Tim brushes hair back from Martin's face. 

They make out for a while, but it's weird. Normally Martin would be begging for Tim's cock by now. Instead, Tim touches him tentatively, like an unexploded bomb. Finally, Martin breaks away and says, "For fuck's sake, Tim, I didn't turn vanilla when you were away." He thinks about Jon, annoyed at being coddled, and feels a pang of empathy.

"I'm worried," Tim says quietly. "You used to end up in bad emotional places after sex with me even before this happened. I don't want to do that to you."

Frustration floods Martin. Maybe a normal person, faced with what he'd experienced, would lose their sex drive, but Martin's Is alive, well, and making very clear demands. Martin takes a deep breath so he won't snap at Tim, and ends up with tears in his eyes instead. "Great." He wipes his eyes. "Just fucking great. So I can't get laid until I resolve this, _and_ I turn into a leaky faucet at the least provocation. Outstanding."

Tim drapes an arm over his shoulders. "You've never minded leaking before."

Martin swats at him weakly. "Don't tease if you're not going to follow up on it. That's mean." He has to admit that even without sex, Tim's proximity is good. "I missed you," Martin says. "I'm glad you're back."

Tim's arm tightens around here. "Glad to be back."

Tim continues to tell Martin stories about his time in the States, but now they're both laid down in bed and Martin's head is pillowed on Tim's shoulder. This is a superior experience by far.

~

Martin thinks about not telling Sasha, but then, as they're chatting, the subject of therapy comes up, Martin doesn't even know how, and he winces.

Sasha spots it immediately. "Martin? What is it?"

He might as well tell her... at least parts of it. "I want to go to therapy," he says. "I tried looking therapists up online, but the wait for the free ones is weeks and the private ones are too expensive."

To Martin's surprise, Sasha brightens with purpose. "Therapy is an excellent idea!" she says. "I have a list of people who work with the LGTBQ centre, they take sliding scale payment. Do you want help calling them?"

Suspicious, Martin says, "You're very enthusiastic about this."

She takes his hand in hers. "I worry about you, Martin. I don't quite know what was going on with you over the last few weeks, but it didn't seem like you were doing all that well." She hesitates. "I know there are some things we don't talk about as much, but if you're having problems, even in areas we don't usually discuss, I'm happy to listen."

"Thanks." Martin squeezes her hand. "So... therapists?"

"Right! Right. There you go." She looks up something on her phone, and types quickly; in a few second, Martin's mobile goes _bing!_. "I was serious about calling them for you, by the way. If you need any kind of help, just let me know."

~

Left to his own devices, Martin would probably have left off calling the therapists on Sasha's list for weeks. But as soon as he mentions it to Jon, Jon asks to see the list, points at a name and says, "That one. Howard whatever. He was on that nurse's list, too."

"With my luck, he's not seeing patients," Martin says, but it turns out that Howard Cross does indeed see patients, and in fact has an opening in his schedule the next week.

They're meeting in the centre, and Martin spends a brief while lost between rooms before finding the one he's meant to be in. Inside is sat a man in a suit, incongruously official-looking among the plastic chairs that populate the room.

Martin would leave, but the man looks at him and asks, "Are you Martin?"

"I am, yeah," he says. "Martin Blackwood." At least this time it didn't come out as a question. "And you're Mr. Cross?"

"Howard, please." He holds out his hand to Martin, who shakes it. "Sit down. What brings you here today, Martin?"

For a brief, mad second, Martin thinks of taking off his shirt again, but doubtless that would only invite more questions. "Apparently I've been self-harming, and I'd like to not do that anymore."

"You've made an excellent first step by admitting that and coming here," Howard says. The approval in his voice makes Martin flinch.

"Also," Martin says, for the sake of completeness, "over the last few weeks I was -- assaulted," that word comes easier than the other one, "a few times, kind of. Sexually. It's complicated."

Howard nods, his expression unchanged. "That tends to make people's mental states worse, yes. It's good that you told me. Thank you."

Martin flinches again. "Are you going to-- pat me on the back for every sentence I say?"

"If you continue to be honest and brave with me, I might do," Howard says, unperturbed. "Does it bother you when people tell you you've done well?"

"The opportunity doesn't arise all that often," Martin says, scratching the back of his neck.

"Somehow I doubt that." Howard leans back in his chair. "But let's get started from the basics. I'm Howard Cross, I have training in CBT and psychodynamic therapy, and I usually use some combination thereof. I have some experience with trauma survivors, sexual and otherwise, as well as other issues. Any questions?" Martin shakes his head. "Now, why don't you tell me about yourself?"

Martin shifts in his chair, takes a deep breath, and starts talking.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In this chapter:
> 
> \- More internalized sex-negativity and victim blaming
> 
> People who self-harm can and do have sex; people have a lot of responses to trauma, some people respond by having their sex drive remain the same or be heightened. 
> 
> Next chapter is the last one - it's going to be more of an epilogue. Thank you for coming this far with me!


	12. Epilogue: one year later

On Monday evening, Georgie has them over for game-and-movie night.

Georgie and Martin are still a little wary of one another; Melanie, Georgie's girlfriend, bickers constantly with Jon, and he only pours oil on that fire; but the Admiral sits on Martin and purrs, and it's a delight to watch Jon and Georgie snarking together. Martin thinks he may like Melanie, too.

"It landed on three," Jon tells Melanie. "You lose the roll."

"It did not, it landed on five!" Melanie turns to Martin. "You saw it, didn't you?"

Martin raises his hands. "I declare neutrality."

"Of course you fucking do," Melanie says in disgust. "Ugh. I'm rolling again."

"Actually, according to the rules," Jon starts, but Martin and Georgie stare him into submission. Nobody wants Melanie to sulk for another entire round.

~

On Tuesday evening, Martin hangs out with Tim. His relationship with Tim isn't as easy as it used to be, but Martin thinks it's better.

Tim pins him to the bed with one hand, easily, watching Martin squirm under him. "Say it," Tim says. "Say it, or you're not getting my cock."

Martin keeps struggling weakly for a few minutes before subsiding. He whispers what Tim told him to say.

"What was that?" Tim says. "Couldn't hear you."

"I'm a good slut," Martin says. His face is crimson, his cock is leaking, and while the words hurt to say it's a clean, lancing pain, that drains out the pressure of infection behind it.

Tim grins at him, wicked and beautiful. "That's what I like to hear."

"Does that mean you'll fuck me already?" Martin says, plaintive.

Tim bends close. "Good b-- good sluts get what's coming to them." The hesitation where Tim almost said _good boy_ would be unnoticeable if Martin hadn't known it would be there. "Should I pin you down or make you ride me?"

Martin closes his eyes and puts his hand on the one Tim's using to pin him down, an established signal. Tim pushes Martin's legs open and shoves inside him, fast enough to make it burn in the way Martin loves.

Afterwards, they cuddle. "Getting your aftercare here or at home?" Tim says.

Martin pretends to think. "I think I'll have both."

Tim laughs softly and doesn't call him greedy, just gets up to fetch him a chocolate bar and a glass of water. As Tim moves away, there's still that familiar twinge of knowing Tim cares about him, but not quite the way Martin would have liked.

It's more of a remnant these days, though, a phantom pain. When it happens, Martin runs his finger over the cord bracelet on his left hand. It's made of one color-changing rainbow-hued cord. As Martin traces it, he breathes, and in another minute Tim's back and holding him.

~

On Wednesday evening, Martin has therapy.

"This week was pretty okay, I guess," Martin says. "I suppose I had a couple rough nights when Jon had to work late."

Howard nods. "Has he said anything about looking for a new job?"

"I don't think the late hours are because of his job," Martin says. "It's more of a Jon thing. I should just... get over myself, I guess, and not be so upset if I don't see him for a few days."

"One, we discussed _should_ ," Howard says. "Do you want to rephrase that?"

Martin rolls his eyes, but he says, "I'm _frustrated_ that I feel that way, that better for you?"

Howard's expression is beatific. "Loads." It turns serious when he says, "Two, you know that's not why I think it would be a good idea for him to quit. Last time you mentioned he thought about therapy, has that gone anywhere?"

True, the reason both Howard and Martin would like Jon to quit is that his boss is a world-class creep. But so far, Jon has been very stubborn about staying in the Magnus Institute, and Martin worries that to argue with him will only make him dig his heels in worse. As for the therapy thing, "It's... hard. He's tried therapy a number of times before, and it always ended up a disaster, he says."

"It can be hard to find the right therapist," Howard says, sympathetic. "Worth it, though, I hope you'll agree?"

Slowly, Martin nods.

"Right. So, what did you do on the nights Jon was away?"

"First one, I called Sasha, we had a chat. The second one..." Martin hesitates. "I went on Grindr. Didn't message anyone, though. Just looked."

"Do you think you're ready to trust a stranger with your boundaries?" Howard's question is gentle, nonjudgemental.

Martin hunches anyway. "Probably not. Probably it would have ended badly." He gives a soft sigh. "That's what I was looking for."

"Right. But you didn't, is the operative thing." Howard's voice has taken on an intensity that makes Martin's attention snap to him. "You could have hurt yourself, but you stepped away. That's wonderful. What did you do instead?"

Martin runs a nervous finger over his bracelet. "Jerked off," he admits. "Went out for ice cream."

"That sounds like a very good way to handle that," Howard says. "What else?"

~

On Thursday evening, Jon ties him up.

"Sure you're up for it?" Jon asks in his Dom voice.

It takes Martin a few moments to answer, but his, "Yes," is heartfelt.

This, too, is a ritual of sorts. The play-collar goes on first, smooth black leather with shiny D-rings. When Jon puts it on him, Martin sighs as something in him loosens. It feels like a missing piece slotting into place.

"Do you want to stay like that?" Jon asks. "Collar, no ropes?"

This time, the hesitation is longer, but Martin means his, "No," just as much. "Keep going. Please."

The ties they do are still simple, nothing elaborate. Two double-column ties, connected, like the first time they did this. Jon practices on inanimate objects, sometimes, frowning over the lay of the rope and the symmetry of the whole thing, and there his works are increasingly intricate. With Martin, though, everything has a quick-release knot, and they're racing against Martin's own mounting discomfort.

It _is_ good to be tied, to feel the ropes sweet and certain around him, even as in the back of his throat he begins to taste claustrophobia and strange men's scent.

Jon's hands are cupping Martin's cheek. "I'm here. I see you. Be with me."

"Keep talking," Martin whispers. "It helps."

"The moment you want these off," Jon pets one rope, "I'll take them off. Just say the word." Martin nods. He knows that. "I love how the rope looks on you. You're soft, and the rope shapes are rigid, and it's beautiful."

Martin gasps and starts to shake. Even as he does, he holds one of his hands in thumbs-up position. No untying him yet. His other hand caresses the bracelet Jon made him, feeling the slightly rough texture of the cord under his fingers.

"I don't quite know what else to say," Jon says. "Two roads diverged in a wood and I, I took the one less travelled by... For the moon never beams without bringing me dreams of my beautiful Annabelle Lee... Is something the matter?"

Martin struggles not to laugh out loud. "Do you know any poems that you haven't learned in primary school?"

"Those are the ones who came to mind," Jon says, defensive, and Martin does laugh.

The very next breath, though, it's too much. "Off, off--"

Jon removes the ropes from him in two swift pulls. Martin clings to him and shivers. Jon looks at the clock. "Seven minutes. You're improving."

Martin makes a sound halfway between a laugh and a sob. "God, why is this hard?"

"It's like you went through a traumatic experience," Jon deadpans. "Several ones in a short period of time, even." Martin swats Jon's arm gently. Jon cards his fingers through Martin's hair. "Tea?"

Martin shuts his eyes. "Soon." He wraps an arm around Jon's midsection, securing them together.

The collar around Martin's neck is warm. Jon will remove it after they have tea, and Martin wants to hold on to it for a little while longer. Maybe one day... maybe. They're not there yet.

For now, Jon can make Martin push himself, and strive, and reach for things he otherwise might just give up on because they're too much trouble. Jon makes him remember that the good parts are worth it.

~

On Friday evening, Martin has a date with a new guy, Lee. He's a friend of one of Tim's friends, new to the kink scene. Tim said Martin could, "Show him the ropes," with an awful wink that Martin ignored.

The date involves going to a party together. Martin hasn't been to a play partner's home, beside Tim, since... well. Public play is better, with people you've just met. Safer.

Lee doesn't seem like Martin would need to be kept safe from him. He's tall but lanky and unassuming, blond hair getting in his eyes. He smiles at Martin as they meet outside the block of flats where the party is taking place. "Shall we go inside?" 

Once inside, Lee offers to fetch Martin some water, which Martin accepts, and they sit down to plan the evening.

"No bondage," Martin says. "A little pain is nice, I like scratches, but not too much. Don't pull my hair. Mostly I just want you to humiliate me. Um, I have some scars, don't worry about them."

"I can do that," Lee says. "Anything in particular to avoid calling you?"

"Don't call me a good boy." The words bring up a little bile in his throat. Such a trivial, stupid thing to fixate on.... Martin takes a deep breath and reminds himself not to call his triggers stupid. "Slut or whore are great. Crawling's good, kissing your feet. No come play, use a condom for any penetration." Which is a pity, because even now Martin likes to swallow, but he's trying to stay safe.

Lee nods. "Sounds all right." His tone changes slightly as he says, "Kneel." It's not Jon's Dom voice, but it's plenty good enough to get Martin down to the floor. "Take your shirt off."

Martin does. Both of Lee's index and ring fingers have long, sharp-looking nails. Martin shivers as they run down his back, a bright flare of sensation.

Eventually, Lee sits back down. "I think you've had enough, greedy bitch." Martin bites his lip. "It's time you had a cock in your mouth, don't you think?"

Martin nods.

Lee narrows his eyes. "You should ask more nicely."

Martin's face warms. His dick, too, is rising steadily to the scorn in Lee's voice. "May I please suck your cock?"

"Ask again." There's a spark in Lee's eyes; he's getting off on this, on Martin being lowered, abased. 

Martin's cock is pressing painfully against the seam of his trousers. "Please-- please--"

"Ask me to fuck your throat," Lee says, and Martin sobs and does.

When Lee pushes his cock down into Martin's mouth, hard and demanding, taking, Martin can shut his eyes. He feels himself teetering on the knife's edge between want and fear.

"Take it, whore," Lee says, but one of his hands is gentle on Martin's back even as the other keeps his head in place to be fucked, and Martin falls squarely on the side of want.

~

On Saturday night, Martin tells Jon, "I want to call my mum."

It's a ritual by now. Every two weeks, just the same, Martin calls the home. William the receptionist answers, Martin asks for his mum, and waits to be denied.

("You don't have to keep calling," says Jon, says Howard, says Sasha.

"I know," Martin says. "I'm still going to." Just in case his mum needs someone so desperately that she even takes him.)

Afterwards, Jon holds him on the couch for a long, long time. Martin doesn't cry as much these days, doesn't have the violent urge to go out and-- and-- do things he shouldn't. He suggested - to Jon, to his therapist - that that might mean he doesn't need as much attention anymore.

Jon just gave him a flat look that just refrained from calling Martin an idiot to his face and said, "That means it's _working_." Howard said pretty much the same thing with more tact.

So Martin cuddles Jon until the pain abates into a distant ache, and then they order a pizza and watch telly until late at night.

~

On Sunday night, they don't do anything.

They spend the day lazing in bed - or as close as Jon comes to lazing, anyway, reading some piece of nonfiction while Martin alternately naps, scribbles aimless poetry, or admires how Jon looks in his reading glasses. 

Technically, Martin doesn't live here. He still pays rent for the flat he shares with two other blokes, although in the last two months he only went there to do his laundry. But this - not the flat he's lying in, not this room, but this space where the warmth of Jon's body touches his - that's home. 

Jon looks at him. Possibly he made a noise. "Martin?"

Martin scoots closer to Jon. He's close to overheating under the blankets, truth be told, but he doesn't want to move away. "I'm good. Carry on."

Jon makes a vague noise and returns to his book. One of his hands, however, curves itself around the nape of Martin's neck. Martin closes his eyes and just - is.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In this chapter:  
> \- nonsexual rope bondage  
> \- sexual humiliation  
> \- self-harm mention  
> \- some self-loathing which is addressed in the text  
> \- Martin's mum being... well, herself
> 
> Thanks again to everyone who's read this <3

**Author's Note:**

> \- The dubcon is all Peter/Martin  
> \- Jon does not have sex in this fic  
> \- While Martin doesn't expect much of his kink partners, they (ie Peter) should in fact have more respect (ie any) for his consent
> 
> Lmk if there's important tags or disclaimers I've missed!


End file.
